


Maybe We Deserve Each Other

by 1creativeusernameplease



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Owen Carvour, Canon-Typical Violence, Cynthia knows all, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Gay Panic, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, MI6 sucks, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Spies, Time Skips, Torture, they are both human disasters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28951344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1creativeusernameplease/pseuds/1creativeusernameplease
Summary: Agent Curt Mega and Owen Carvour are some of the best spies in the business. They are also best friends. When their safety is threatened, they get a little concerned about one another and certain realizations are made. Perhaps they could be more.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 35
Kudos: 47





	1. Been a While

The taxi stuttered to stop at the street corner. The driver turned and nodded at Curt grimly before reaching over into the passenger seat to retrieve a package. He handed it to Curt without a word. The spy took it carefully. He knew the package held the weapon he would need for his mission. Curt stepped out of the taxi with his bag on his shoulder. He thanked the driver quietly and looked around. It was late, the sky was just barely coloring the clouds a dark purple on the horizon, not that he could really see it this deep in the city. That wasn’t to say Curt wasn’t enjoying the scenery. Istanbul was a lovely place this time of year. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there for leisure. He had a job to do. 

Curt walked two blocks north and turned down the alleyway as he had been instructed, keeping a keen eye out for anyone too interested in where he was headed. Other than a stray cat, Curt didn’t see anyone on his way to the grungy rendezvous point: a green door under a local pub. The spy knocked once, paused, and knocked two more times. 

The door opened a crack, allowing Curt to see a flash of dark brown eyes before the door was swung wide to present Special Agent Owen Carvour.

The man leaned against the door frame casually as his face broke into a lazy smile. 

“My dear friend, Curt Mega. Fancy seeing you here!” 

Curt couldn’t help the small smile that came to his face. “Hello to you, too.”

Owen shoved his hands in the pockets of his slim cargo pants. Curt wondered if he had them tailored. It seemed like the sort of stagy thing his friend would do. 

Owen looked him over from head to toe. “You’re looking well. How long has it been?”

_ Almost three months.  _ Curt wasn’t counting. He shrugged.

“Must have been four months since I last saw you,” Owen said. He looked him over again and seemed to remember what they were doing there. “Where are my manners? Come in, come in.”

He jumped aside and waved him into the building. “Welcome to the safe house.”

Curt would have described it more as a safe  _ room _ than a house but he and Owen had seen worse accommodations. The room was entirely brown - the walls, the old wood floors, the table and two chairs in the corner - except for the ratty green blanket thrown on top of the questionable double bed in the far corner. Even the old phone on the wall had yellowed into an unpleasant beige. 

“Bedbugs?” Curt asked.

“Oh, unquestionably,” Owen assured him with a consolatory pat on his shoulder. “However, for once, the toilet is almost a shade of white.”

Curt raised his eyebrows appreciatively. 

“Are you hungry?” Owen asked, going over to the table. “I picked us up some sandwiches.” He held up a paper bag questioningly.

“That’s alright, I think I’ll save it for tomorrow morning.” He came over to set his bag on the opposite chair. “Thank you, though.”

Owen’s features morphed into a more reserved expression at the reminder of their mission. “Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten? You never did like to work on an empty stomach.”

“You’re one to talk,” Curt scoffed as he took the mission file out of his bag and took a seat. Owen was always stuffing his face with one snack or another. Curt didn’t know how he maintained his slim physique with all the food he consumed in a day. Especially with his preference for sweet goods. 

Owen chuckled to himself and sat on the rickety chair beside the table. Curt pulled out the surveillance photo of one of their targets, Talha Yilviz. He was slim, in his late thirties, with dark hair and beard, and a triangular tattoo on his neck. If nothing else, he would be easily identifiable. Owen nodded to the mission file in Curt’s hand. 

“How much did they tell you?”

Curt shrugged. “Enough. There’s a plot to kidnap another politician. They want us to take out their base, gather intel, take the target into custody. Nothing we haven’t seen before.” 

Owen hummed. Curt watched as he dragged his slender fingers through his hair. 

“Seems a little too easy, don’t you think, love?”

Curt scowled. 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Come on, now. They send two of the best spies in the whole business to protect some nobody political figure in Turkey?” He sighed and gazed at a scratch on the table. “Seems like perhaps they don’t have all the variables on this one and they’re covering their bases.”

Curt sighed. Owen was always more suspicious than him, which he supposed wasn’t a terrible trait in a spy but it exhausted Curt. If there was an issue, then they’d deal with it when the time came. For now, Curt was willing to give A.S.S. and MI6 the benefit of the doubt. 

“Nothing we can’t handle, though, right?” Curt tried to reassure him. He didn’t want Owen going into this mission with any more anxiety than was necessary. 

Owen flexed his jaw, lost in thought. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Curt.” His dark eyes looked unfocused as if he were imagining several different scenarios of increasing violence. 

Curt nudged his leg under the table. Owen’s focus was dragged back to the present. 

“Hey. Don’t go worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet,” Curt said. “I need a clear head from you, old boy.”

Owen gazed at him fondly, a grin breaking across his face, his demeanor changing almost instantly. The change was slightly unnerving, but Curt was used to Owen’s moodiness by now. 

“Never fear, love,” Owen said, standing to stretch out his shoulder. Curt wondered if it was still sore from their mission in Lisbon. “I’ll always have your back.”

He checked his watch. “We should get some sleep. We’ve got a very early morning.”

Curt sighed. He had tried to sleep on the plane, but he had only managed an hour. He kicked off his shoes and stared distastefully at the bed. He imagined the long shower he would enjoy after this mission. 

“Do you want to move the bed away from the wall?” Curt asked. 

Spies by nature did not like feeling trapped in any form and Curt himself often felt uncomfortable sleeping next to the wall with no easy access to an escape if the need arose. 

Owen glanced at the bed, considering the layout of the tiny room. He looked back at Curt. “No, I’ll take the wall. I don’t foresee anyone bursting into this room for the next six hours. And even if they did,” Owen said, “I trust you to watch my back.”

The corners of Curt’s mouth lifted by a fraction. He’d missed him. 

The men commenced with their evening routines, brushing teeth and double-checking locks on doors. Finally, it was time to sleep. They stripped down to their undershirts and boxers and Owen turned off the light. They climbed into the rickety bed in the dark.

Curt heard a soft thud. 

“Ow.”

“Did you elbow the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to survive?”

Owen chuckled. “I don’t know. It looks pretty bad. I might not make it.”

“Scooch closer,” Curt said. “I don’t want you making a ruckus and waking me up all night.”

Curt felt the bed jostle as Owen moved closer to him. He could feel the man’s body heat along his left arm and smelled his vanilla-scented cologne he always wore. Curt relaxed. It was just nice to have someone he trusted with him while he slept. It wasn’t often he was granted the opportunity. 

He heard Owen release a deep breath as he settled into the lumpy mattress. 

“Goodnight, Curt. Sleep well.”

Owen shifted slightly so their shoulders touched. Curt really had missed him.

“Goodnight, Owen,” Curt said softly. He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, everyone... it's my first attempt at a slow burn. I'm not a very patient person though so we'll see how slow it is.
> 
> Let me know what you guys thought. I'll take all the serotonin I can get.


	2. Gone to Hell

Owen woke as his watch buzzed on his wrist. He laid still in the darkness. For a moment, he forgot where he was. He never really got used to waking up in a new place no matter how many missions he went on. 

He heard Curt breathing next to him and he relaxed. He couldn’t see him in the dark but he could feel his arm pressed against his. He closed his eyes and listened for a minute. He found himself inadvertently mimicking Curt’s breathing pattern. A twitch in Curt’s hand shook him from his quiet reflection. 

Owen didn’t want to wake him up. Reluctantly, he rolled on his side to touch his partner’s shoulder. 

“Curt,” he said softly. 

“Mmm,” Curt responded. 

Owen smiled. “It’s time to rise and shine, love. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” 

He felt Curt shift beside him, heard him yawn into his fist. 

“Come on, get a move on. We don’t have all day.” Owen poked him in the side. All he heard from his partner was a guttural groan as he stretched his entire body.

_ That man is never quiet.  _

He felt him settle back into the bed. This called for drastic measures.

“If you don’t get up within the next five seconds, I’m going to have to climb over you to turn on the light,” Owen pressured. Curt just groaned again. “You leave me no choice.” 

He rolled over on top of him, a risky move in the dark, but Owen had a very keen control over his limbs. Curt grunted beneath him. 

“Alright, alright, I’m up! Get off of me,” Curt said. Owen felt hands on his chest push him away and he let himself slide off the edge of the bed. He got to his feet and groped blindly for the lamp. The room was illuminated with a short click and Curt blinked against the light. Owen gazed at him fondly. 

“I’ve never met a spy that was less of a morning person than you, Curt Mega,” he mused as Curt threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, still rubbing his eyes grumpily. Owen began pulling on his trousers. 

“I think you need to meet more spies,” Curt mumbled. 

Owen shook his head as he stuck his arm through his shirt. “No, I think you are quite enough, love.”

Curt blinked curiously at him, his sleepiness drifting away. “Surely you’ve been on missions with other spies from MI6?”

Owen could have rolled his eyes. “Oh no, my dear. MI6 knows me well enough to not pair me up with some glorified journalist or a trainee pencil pusher.” He grimaced, remembering the last mission he had with someone that was not his American counterpart. He’d nearly left Owen for dead in the middle of the Balkans, the slimy little backstabber. And on top of that, the man had just been dull. No, Owen Carvour much preferred the company of one Agent Curt Mega over anyone MI6 could throw at him. 

Curt scowled. He rose, a contemplative look on his face. A sudden question overtook Owen. 

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?” Curt started getting dressed.

Owen hesitated, taking care to school his features into those of curiosity and not reflect the twinge of what he now realized was jealousy. “How many missions have you been on with other people?” he asked casually.

Curt thought for a moment, pulling on his jacket. “I don’t know. There were a few at the beginning, but for the most part, I’ve been a bit of a lone wolf.” He grinned at Owen. “Guess that makes you special.”

The tight feeling in Owen’s chest relaxed. “Or maybe I’m the only one who can put up with you.”

Curt hummed but did not retort. Owen was slightly disappointed by the lack of banter. He watched Curt stride over to the table to peer into the sandwich bag from the night before. He pulled one out and appraised it carefully. 

“There aren’t any onions on this are there?”

Owen rolled his eyes. “No, I made sure there wasn’t an onion in sight.” Curt seemed satisfied and took a large bite. “I don’t envy your poor mother. All those years with such a picky eater,” Owen mused teasingly. 

“You leave my mother out of this,” Curt said with his mouth full. 

“Right. To business.” Owen sat at the table and pulled out the case file from his bag. “Let’s go over the plan.”

Now it was Curt’s turn to roll his eyes. “Owen, I’ve already been over the plan three times.”

“Yes, but not with me, love,” Owen said. He’d never understand Curt’s insistence to wing everything. It was insufferable. Why have a plan at all if you were going to ignore the whole thing anyway? 

Curt swallowed. “Fine,” he sighed. “We go in through the east entrance, gather any hard evidence, find this Yilviz guy, subdue him for questioning, and take out anyone who gets in our way.”

Owen picked at the bread of his sandwich. He wasn’t really hungry. “Extraction?”

“Uh…” Curt looked at Owen apologetically. 

Owen shook his head. “There’s a car two blocks from the location for our guest. We contact A.S.S., they pull up, we drop off our guest, and we’re off to write our reports all before lunch.”

Curt nodded and smiled a bit sheepishly. 

_ A little humbling never hurt anyone _ , thought Owen. 

“Right,” Curt said. “I knew that.” He took another bite of his sandwich. 

“I have no doubt you would have remembered at the last possible second,” Owen murmured. He had meant it to be a subtle barb but it came out in far too fond a voice. The half-smile on his face didn’t do him many favors either. 

Curt seemed to pick up on it, much to his chagrin. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.” His eyes glittered mischievously. 

Owen sighed. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.” He looked resignedly at his uneaten sandwich. He should eat something. If this mission was going to go to hell like he thought it was, he was going to thank himself later that he had the meal. 

He felt Curt’s foot against his leg under the table. Their eyes met. Curt’s eyebrows rose in a silent question. 

_ You alright? _

Owen plastered on a smile for Curt’s sake and took a bite of his breakfast. 

Curt seemed satisfied and pulled out his flask from his jacket pocket. He offered it to Owen who politely declined before he took a healthy swig. He smiled charmingly at his partner. 

“Ready when you are, old boy.”

+++++++++++++++

The city was nearly silent this early in the morning. They met no one but a homeless man and his dog on their way to the terrorist base. Owen was glad for the silence. It made it easier to think. Unlike Curt, Owen was prone to a few pre-mission jitters. It had gotten much better over the years, and he’d learned to hide it well with a smooth smile and a quick wit, but he was never as confident as he wanted to be. 

He went over the plan again. Curt’s shoulder brushed his briefly as they strode down the street. A flutter of calm overtook him for a moment before his earlier anxiety came back in full force. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over this mission. He had felt it as soon as his supervisors had handed him the case file. Having Curt beside him helped, though. 

They crossed the street in tandem, looking out of the corners of their eyes for any threats. Owen kept watch as Curt stooped to pick the lock of the east door. They slipped inside without a word. Owen had his gun drawn the second he stepped over the threshold and he heard Curt do the same behind him. He felt the tap on his shoulder that meant he was ready to go. 

Owen let his anxiety melt into the back of his mind. Dread wouldn’t do him any good now. In its place, he felt the cool rigidness of procedure solidify in his limbs and slow his breath. 

He walked down the hallway with Curt covering his six until he came upon the first door. He pressed his ear against the peeling paint and heard nothing. He made swift eye contact with his partner before he opened the door. They swarmed in, clearing the corners before sweeping their weapons over the middle of the room. There was nothing but a ratty couch and an old radio. 

They stepped back into the hallway but only made it a few feet before Owen heard a voice at the next door. Owen looked back at his partner. Curt grinned back at him. 

“Shall we knock?” he whispered. 

Owen rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help the smirk that came to his lips. It was one of Curt’s favorites. He thought it was cheeky. 

Owen crossed to the other side of the door and switched his pistol to his left hand. He nodded. He was ready. Curt took his practiced stance on the other side of the door and knocked twice. 

He heard a shuffling from inside. The door swung open. Owen did not wait to introduce himself. His fist jabbed at the young man’s nose and used the surprise attack to his advantage, pushing them both into the room so Curt could follow. He heard a grunt of surprise as his partner took on the other goon, but he didn’t turn around to check. He had his own assailant to deal with.

The man had quickly regained his footing, but Owen was ready for him. He brought the butt of his gun to his temple and he was crumpling to the floor in a flash. 

“Well that wasn’t too bad, was it? Didn’t even break a sweat.”

Owen turned to the grinning man and his unconscious foe. He brushed the hair out of his face and pointed a stern finger at his friend. 

“Don’t get cocky, love.” He took in his surroundings for the first time. The room looked almost identical to the last one with a couch and an old wooden table. Curt pointed to the wall behind him. Owen followed his finger and sighed. “Well, this is entirely too easy.” 

The wall closest to him was covered in maps and photographs of buildings, cars, and various Turkish political figures. Curt was already snapping photos on his pen camera. He was, for once, focused on the job in front of him. He watched as the American stooped to capture a closer image of a document. Owen found himself smiling. 

Curt turned back to him. “What?”

Owen shrugged, taking the extra second to think of something to say. “I was just wondering when A.S.S. was going to share their toys with the rest of the world.”

“What? This old thing?” Curt waggled his camera pen casually. “This is old news. Barb’s been talkin’ about developing some  _ rocket shoes _ .” His eyes widened in excitement. 

“What would you even do with-”

Curt held up a hand. “Owen, trust me. They’re going to be amazing.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you hear the phrase ‘rocket shoes’ and your brain immediately shuts off?” Owen sighed. 

“Don’t tell me you aren’t intrigued.”

“I-”

“Paavo?” A voice came from the hall. Owen shut his mouth immediately. Curt caught his gaze and raised his eyebrows in question. Silently, Owen shuffled to the door frame, hunching slightly so he wasn’t as visible. He managed to catch a glimpse of the man before he ducked into the room they had just cleared. It was Yilviz. 

Owen crept back to his partner, stopping only inches in front of him. “That’s our man,” he whispered. 

Curt nodded. “I go high, you go low?”

Owen scowled. “I’m taller than you,” he hissed. “Why do you always-”

Curt raised his gun and padded toward the door, already moving past the conversation. Owen begrudgingly followed, moving to take his position on the other side of the door frame. 

“Paavo?” Yilviz called again. He sounded nervous.

Owen raised his gun and let out a short breath. He pressed his back into the wall and waited for their target to step into the room. 

Unfortunately, the first thing that came into sight was the muzzle of a gun. Curt jumped into action, slamming his forearms down onto Yilsiv’s outstretched arms, forcing his weapon down. Owen sprang up behind him and wrapped one arm around the man’s neck and the other around his gun arm. 

But the man was stronger than he thought. He struggled as Curt tried to pry his weapon out of his hand. Owen heard the gun go off just as Yilziv drove the back of his head into Owen’s face. 

Pain cracked over his nose and he stumbled back, only then realizing where the bullet had ended up. 

“Fucking hell,” he grimaced. His leg burned below the knee and he couldn’t help the way he fell back against the wall, his instincts lifting his foot above the ground to keep the weight off of it. His moment of weakness allowed Yilziv to slip out of Curt’s grasp. The man raised his gun as he limped back to the door. Curt ducked behind the couch as he fired randomly to make his escape. 

Curt jumped back up when the coast was clear. Owen slid down the wall so that he was seated on the floor. The shock was starting to wear off and the pain in his leg was growing. 

“Owen?” Curt rushed to his side, worry breaking through the rigidness of his voice. His hands hovered over his shin, unsure of the severity of the injury.

Owen gritted his teeth as he finally got a glimpse of his wound. It was only a flesh wound, entering one side of his calf and exiting the other, but the blood was already pooling, dark against the fabric of his trousers. He wouldn’t be much use chasing down their target. Curt had already taken off his jacket, shoving the fabric into his hands. 

“Use this for now, I’ll go get something-”

Owen pressed the material over the wound but shook his head.“Go! Get him, I’ll be fine!” he grunted. 

“Owen-”

“Just finish the job! I’m not going anywhere,” said Owen, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Curt looked ready to argue but Owen placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him away. “Go,” he ordered again.

Curt set his jaw. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He rose and sprinted off to catch their target.

Owen hoped he caught him quickly. He could really use a quick extraction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the mission's gone sideways just as he feared!
> 
> Let me know what you thought. I love reading comments!


	3. Underestimated

Curt sprinted down the hall, following the trail of blood that he could only guess came from a graze by the same bullet that had hit Owen. His heart seized at the image of his partner sliding to the ground, wounded and in pain. The relief he’d felt when he saw it was only a flesh wound had not yet left his system, creating a strange mixture of euphoric mania and anxious adrenaline in his brain that he was forced to push away. His mission came first. Then he could worry about his friend.

The trail led to the building exit and Curt followed it out into the street. He glanced around frantically, searching for the dark hair and the green jacket Yilviz had been sporting. There were more people in the street now, on their way to work or getting some quick morning errands checked off their lists. Curt growled in frustration, straining his eyes to see  _ \- there _ \- a man on the other side of the street, quickly discarding his jacket and favoring his left leg. 

Curt jogged after him cautiously, trailing behind him as they made a brisk path down the street. The last thing Curt needed was Yilziv pulling a gun on him in the middle of a public street. He needed to do this quietly with as few witnesses as possible and as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to leave Owen alone and wounded for too long. 

He could practically hear Cynthia fuming inside his head.  _ Don’t fuck this up, Mega! _

His fingers smoothed over the cool metal of his gun as he matched his mark’s limping pace. They were getting farther and farther away from the base, from Owen, but Curt had to put it out of his mind. He stared at the back of Yiviz’s head, willing him to stumble, but the man kept walking. 

He knew he always did this. He underestimated their enemies, their will, their skills. That’s what Owen was for. It’s why Cynthia always tried to pair them together on international missions. She knew Owen kept him grounded. 

Curt’s focus gathered again as Yilziv made a sharp turn into a small alley.  _ Finally. _

He sped after him, his eyes glancing around for any watching eyes, and ducked into the alley behind him. The second his eyes found his target he raised his gun and took aim at the man’s back. 

“Durmak!” Curt called in Turkish. The man slowed. “Toss your weapon away slowly,” he ordered. He watched Yilviz’s shoulders slump in defeat as he took his gun between his thumb and forefinger and tossed it away. The metal clattered on the old stones. “Keep your hands up and turn around.” Yilviz turned, his lips in a grim line behind his beard. 

Curt stepped closer, his aim staying true as he slipped his handcuffs from his jacket pocket. He tossed them on the ground in front of the man. “Put those on.”

Yilviz sighed and slowly bent to grab them. Curt tracked his movements. He watched the man’s body tense as he rose back up. 

“Don’t,” Curt warned. “Don’t even try. It will not end well for you.”

Yilvis’s eyes flashed in challenge, but he saw him relax by a fraction. “What makes you say that?” he said with only a slight accent. “I escaped you once didn’t I?”

Curt felt his thumb twitch on the handle of his pistol. “Sure, but you shot my friend in the process. That might make things difficult for you if you don’t do as I say.” Curt didn’t mind the threat that had crept into his voice. He couldn’t deny feeling a little vindictive about the whole thing. He hoped Owen was holding up okay back at the enemy base. “Now put on those cuffs.”

Yilviz did so reluctantly. Curt brought his communicator to his chin. 

“Barb, you there?”

“Yes, Agent, I’m here!” Barb Lavernor’s high squeak rang back through his communicator. Curt managed to stifle his wince. Barb was fairly new to field assistance and he could tell she got a little overexcited sometimes. 

“I’ve got Yilviz in custody, but we’re a little off our original drop off point and I’d rather not walk him there in cuffs. Can you send the car an extra few blocks?”

“Sure! No problem! If you double click the black pen in your inside jacket pocket, we’ll be able to locate-”

“I’m four blocks north of the enemy base on the east side of the street. In an alley across from a fabric shop,” Curt cut her off, keeping an eye on his captive. He didn’t have time to try and puzzle out Barb’s equipment. Owen needed his help. “Can you get medical in with our extraction? Carvour got a stray bullet to his leg.”

“Oh, jeez. I hope he’s okay.”

“Barb,” Curt said forcefully. 

“Right, sorry, Curt. I’m sending the extraction team now!” His communicator beeped and went silent. He felt a little guilty at her quick apology but he’d been away too long. He holstered his gun and stood stiffly as he waited for the pickup team. Yilviz looked at him resignedly. 

“Feeling nervous?”

Curt’s fists clenched. He really needed to learn to control his emotions in front of his targets. 

“Your friend - Cavour, was it? Has he been shot before?” Yilviz relaxed his weight casually onto his uninjured leg as if their roles were reversed and Curt was the one in handcuffs. 

Curt didn’t bother to respond. It wasn’t his job to get information out of him and Curt had learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut in these situations. It was one of Cynthia’s many, many rules. 

“I’ve been shot three times,” Yilviz said, almost to himself. “Well, four if you count this one but I don’t. Would you?”

Curt exhaled through his nose and checked his watch. “Would you mind shutting up?” His voice came out clipped. Yilviz raised his eyebrows but was silent. 

Curt relaxed slightly but he still had to resist fidgeting as the seconds ticked past. 

“How many men did you take down before you got to me?” Yilviz piped up again. Curt’s eye twitched. 

“I don’t know, two?” he snapped. 

Yilviz nearly scoffed. “Two?” Something in his voice sent a whisper of unease up Curt’s spine. “I thought you guys were professionals.” 

Curt’s head whipped around to face the man. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh and you left your friend all alone back there,” Yilviz tutted. Curt’s breathing was getting heavier. “I do hope he’s doing alright.”

Curt grabbed the man’s jacket and pushed him against the alley wall before he could stop himself. “How many people are you working with!”

Yilviz smiled. “Looks like it’s time for me to go.” He nodded his head to the side and Curt followed the movement to the black van that had pulled up alongside the alleyway.

The extraction team had arrived. Two men in black suits stepped out of the vehicle. Curt looked back at his captive as he relaxed his grip on the man’s jacket. The last thing he needed was the agency breathing down his neck for roughing up a key witness. His mind still raced. A dull weighted dread seemed to pull at his gut as Yilviz smiled again. 

“I’d hurry back to your friend if I were you.”

Curt’s jaw clenched. He nodded to the men as they approached them. “Get him out of here.” He stepped away from Yilviz and watched carefully when the two agents took the man by the arms. 

As soon as the man was secure Curt was running. Yilviz’s taunting laughter followed him down the alley but Curt couldn’t bring himself to care. With any luck, he’d never see the man again and he was no longer his priority. Owen was. He cursed as he rounded the corner onto the street. He shouldn’t have left him. That was stupid. He knew Owen could defend himself but there had been too many unknowns. Owen had said it himself before the mission. It was too easy. Too simple. 

_ Yes. Simple.  _ Curt was overreacting. Yilviz had just been trying to get a rise out of him. But he’d sounded so confident back there and if Curt was being honest, they really didn’t have much information on this guy or his group. There was definitely a possibility that they were in over their heads. Curt swallowed his uncertainty as his sprinting feet led him through the enemy’s door. 

The halls were silent. 

“Owen?” Curt called. There was no answer. Curt tried to convince himself that his racing heart was just a side effect from his quick sprint down the street. He unholstered his weapon and raised it in front of him slowly, keeping his eyes peeled and his ears strained for any sign of Owen or someone less friendly. He paced down the hall until he came upon the room where he had left his partner. “Owen?” he said again, softer this time. Still nothing. He stepped into the room with his gun raised. There was no one there. 

Just a red stain on the floor and his own crumpled jacket, still wet with Owen’s blood. Curt’s dread weighted his arms and he let his gun fall to his side. 

Owen was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, who could have seen this coming. I know... I'm very original <3.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	4. Looking Dire

Owen woke slowly. He didn’t know where he was. He never knew when he first woke up but usually, he remembered fairly quickly. Then again, he wasn’t normally cuffed to a metal chair when he awoke. 

_ Fuck.  _

His leg ached dully where the bullet had gone through. He could see by the single fluorescent light above him that the bleeding had mostly stopped. Or at least, he could only see a dry stain on his trousers next to the cuffs around his ankles tethering him to the legs of the chair. Otherwise, his nose was bruised but unbroken from his skirmish with Yilviz and his head was pounding. Owen closed his eyes. 

Right, he remembered now. Those men had snuck in a few minutes after Curt had left. Owen had seen them too late to draw his gun. He cursed himself. He should have known better than to lower his guard in a place like that.

He looked around the room for any clues as to where he’d been taken. A solid looking door faced him surrounded by concrete walls. No windows or vents interrupted the shadowy grey stone. There was nothing else in the room except for what Owen now realized was a large rusted tray that he and his chair were sat in. 

_ To catch the blood, _ a helpful voice told him. He couldn’t help the way his heart rate sped slightly at the thought. That really didn’t bode well for his future plans of withstanding whatever his captors threw at him. Owen didn’t have any doubt that some amount of torture was in store for him, though he hardly knew who had taken him in the first place. 

He strained experimentally against his cuffs, the metal digging into his wrists, but they were tight and secure. Owen sighed and tried to force his body to relax a little. There was no use being wound so tightly when there was no one to put on a brave face for. He couldn’t even really try and plan for an escape. He had no information.

All he could do was hope that Curt had finished the mission and had notified MI6 of his absence. He wondered if they’d bother trying to get him back. He’d like to think that they would. 

His last six missions were successful and the one before that there had only been a slight hiccup with a security detail, but he’d still gotten the information. Owen was valuable. He knew that he was. Even if his superiors never gave him any sign of appreciation, he kept getting assignments. He knew of others that were fired or worse for a certain lack of results. 

He envied Curt sometimes. His organization seemed to at least care if he lived or died. And Cynthia was foul-mouthed but they all knew she cared deep down. If Owen died he was pretty sure Harris would just sigh at the inconvenience of his untimely passing if it ever came down to it. Who knew? He might even be the one to pull the trigger one day. Owen sometimes had nightmares about it. 

_ But,  _ Owen thought as he looked about the room once again,  _ it may never come down to that. _

He didn’t know what these people wanted. He didn’t even really know who they were. And most importantly, Owen had no idea what type of torture they would employ during his time here. 

How thorough would they be? What information could he divulge? Did he have any chance of escape? Any chance of rescue? His watch was gone, probably to help keep him feel isolated, but also probably destroyed if these people knew what they were doing. No one would know where he was. Owen felt his anxiousness rise with the bile in his throat. 

He’d been trained to withstand torture from MI6. He’d done well in their assessments but Owen had always prided himself on being actually good at his job. He didn’t get caught. Not kidnapped. Not tortured. He’d only been shot twice before and they’d all been superficial flesh wounds. This was new territory, uncharted and unknown. And if there was one thing Owen hated, it was the unknown. 

He supposed that was part of the torture. Owen leaned back in the metal chair, trying to force his body into relaxation and hoping his mind would follow. Memories of stories Curt had told him traveled into his mind. Curt  _ had _ gotten caught and tortured before. So much that Curt had been surprised when Owen had told him it wasn’t really normal. 

Curt called it part of the job. Owen thought it was self-destructive. He sometimes wondered if he wanted to get caught with all the reckless things his partner was prone to do. Not to mention the risks he took for the fun of it. Or the drinking. Come to think of it, Curt Mega probably gave Owen more anxiety than his actual job at times. Still, Owen found himself smiling, it was nice to see the man grin in relief at a particularly close call. He knew he liked the adrenaline rush. It was going to get him into trouble one of these-

Owen tensed as he heard the scrape of metal on the other side of the door. Air was sucked into his lungs. He let it out slowly.  _ You’ve got this. Just another mission. You just have to get into character.  _

The door swung open to a dark hallway and two rough-looking men, different from those who had captured him before. They appraised him curiously. Owen did his best to match their relaxed demeanor as they entered the room slowly. The larger of the two turned to shut the door behind them. The other came to a stop in front of the spy. Owen raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for them to initiate the conversation. 

“Hello,” said the man, at last, his greying hair and beard seemed to shine in the light above them. 

Owen sat back in his chair. “Good afternoon. Actually- forgive me- I seem to have misplaced my watch. Could I bother you for the time?” 

The man at the door scowled, but the other just smiled. It was a cruel smile. 

“My name is Konstantin.” His voice was accented.  _ Russian. Interesting. _ “This is my associate, Grisha.” He gestured to the man at the door. “What is your name?”

Owen looked between the two men curiously. What did the Russians have to do with a local political plot in Turkey? 

“Edwards. James Edwards,” Owen said. 

Konstantin nodded, studying him like a curator in an art gallery. 

“Well, Mr. Edwards…” 

Grisha approached him slowly, a mountain of a man, bald, expressionless.  _ The muscle.  _

“We would like to know a few things about you.” Konstantin’s dark eyes glittered. “Nothing too personal,” he assured. “Just some questions about your job is all.”

Owen swallowed. 

“Grisha is here to help you remember, yes?”

Grisha grunted in reply and stalked behind Owen. The spy resisted turning his head to follow the man’s movements. Instead, he focused on the man in front of him. 

Konstantin reached out and pulled at a loose thread on Owen’s shirt until it came away in between his thumb and forefinger. Owen didn’t move. The man examined the thread closely. Then he pulled out a lighter and lit the end. They both watched the tiny flame engulf the thread until it reached the man’s fingers, where it extinguished itself. A small stream of smoke rose between them. Konstantin smiled again. 

“I’m very excited to learn more about you, Mr. Edwards.”


	5. All You Gotta Do Is Realize

“And I’m telling  _ you _ , Mega, it’s not my god-fucking-damned department,” Cynthia yelled over the phone. 

“Bullshit!” Curt’s feet itched to pace out his frustration but he was stuck in this tiny phone booth. 

“He’s not my agent, Mega. He’s MI6’s problem, not mine.”

“Cynthia-”

“Look, you know I love the kid - I do. He’s twice the spy you’ll ever be but this is out of my hands. You’ll have to talk to the fucking redcoats yourself. But before that. I need a full after-action report and a debrief by tomorrow.” 

Curt’s fingers clenched around the phone handle. 

“Can’t you-”

“It’s out of my hands,” Cynthia said with finality. The line went dead. Curt smashed the receiver into its cradle. This was bad. 

Curt stormed out of the phone booth and started heading in the direction of the safe house, his thoughts racing. 

He’s already scoured every inch of the terrorists’ base for clues as to where they took Owen. Other than a few encrypted correspondences in Russian, Curt didn’t find anything. He was almost positive they wouldn’t have taken him all the way to Russia. 

_ They could have just killed him.  _ Ice-cold dread seeped into his chest at the thought. But why would they have taken the body if that were true? A little bit of warmth trickled back into him with each breath he took. No, Curt had to believe that his partner was still alive. He didn’t know what he would do if the alternative was true. 

He had to find a way to contact MI6, which, if Owen’s stories were anything to go by, was going to prove to be challenging. As secret services go, MI6 seemed to be as tight-lipped as they came. Owen was only ever on a need-to-know basis when in communication with them. It was something he had learned to adapt to. Something that Curt found incredibly frustrating. But going through MI6 might be the only way he could find Owen. 

He entered their tiny room in a nearly manic state. He started with Owen’s case file, looking in the margins and endnotes for a phone number, a point of contact, anything, but he came up empty-handed. Then he moved on to rummaging through Owen’s overnight bag. There was barely anything in it; an extra set of clothes, a toothbrush, a razor, a small bottle of cologne, and an old gilded pocket watch. He opened it curiously. He’d never seen Owen use it before. Everything he needed was right there on his wrist so why… hold on. The numbers were all wrong; too few, out of order, and repeating as they went around the clock face. 

“One, five, two, three, five, one, four,” he muttered under his breath. A code. But for what? It seemed too easy to be a phone number but… what else could it be?

Curt strode over to the phone on the wall and dialed the number with shaking hands. The line picked up after the first ring. A pleasant female voice came through. 

“Good afternoon. Please state your identification number and how we may assist you today.”

Curt froze. His initial relief at being answered melted away in almost an instant. 

“Um, I don’t have an identification number, but, look - Your agent, Owen Carvour - he’s in trouble. He’s been captured. I need help finding him so he can be extracted.”

“Sir, please provide an identification number and I’ll be happy to attend to your needs.”

Curt growled in frustration. “Listen, lady, your agent is in danger. I need MI6 to locate-”

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you are unable to provide me with an identification number, this call will be terminated.”

“No, wait - just -” Curt wracked his brain desperately. “- 37259?” he said randomly. 

There was a pause from the other end. Curt didn’t move a muscle.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your identification number is invalid. Your call will now be terminated. Goodbye.” 

Curt deflated as he heard the final click. He replaced the receiver and stared dejectedly at the phone. He could keep calling and spouting random numbers but he didn’t have a clue where to start and he didn’t know how long they’d tolerate it before they stopped answering entirely. He had no other idea how to contact them. A dull thudding in his brain reminded him of the weight in his jacket pocket.

He shuffled over to the bed and tossed the watch onto the mattress. He sat on the ratty green blanket and pulled out his flask. The alcohol burned as it traveled down his throat, the familiar sting serving as both balm and contrition. He knew Owen disliked his habit. What would he say if he were here? What a pathetic excuse for a partner he was, sitting on a bed, drinking, instead of being out there, looking for him. Curt shoved his flask back into his jacket pocket and tried not to let his hopelessness overtake him. 

He leaned back onto the mattress with a sigh, the yellowed and peeling ceiling staring down at him. 

“Come on,” he muttered. “Think.”

A.S.S. wasn’t going to help. He couldn’t contact MI6. Where did that leave him?

He turned onto his side, bringing his knees toward his chest, and took a deep breath. The faint smell of vanilla was still discernible in between the musty and mildewed scents of the sheets. It was warm and familiar and distinctly Owen’s. 

Owen always smelled nice - he liked to be clean - but he had this cologne he took with him wherever he could. Curt had watched him apply it once or twice before when his partner was stuck in the wont of routine; dabbed on each wrist and under his ears. Something had stopped him from teasing him about it then. Curt couldn’t deny he’d been a little fascinated at the time.

Curt breathed him in again and imagined his partner lying next to him. Safe. Sleeping peacefully. Curt’s phantom hand reached out to touch his face, curled a few strands of dark hair behind his ear. Owen opened his eyes slowly. Curt watched his cloudy eyes become clear, focused on his own with warm fondness. A crooked smile grew across Owen’s face, the expression knowing and intimate. His heart ached.

Curt’s fingers clenched around the bedsheets as he extinguished his vision. He couldn’t let himself think like that. Heat rose up his neck. Shame made his skin itch. 

Curt wasn’t blind. Owen had always been a very attractive man by Curt’s standards, his unending charm and striking wit only making him more of a catch. The mutual trust the pair had developed over the years had created the illusion of intimacy, something that Curt had learned to distinguish from his more romantic fancies. Still, Curt had on more than one occasion let his thoughts drift to pleasant fantasies, but he was fairly sure his partner didn’t share his… particular interests. And even if he did…

His thoughts began to wander once more. 

“Stop,” he whispered. 

None of it would matter if Curt couldn’t get him back. He had to find him quickly. But how? 

Curt’s gaze settled on the useless watch in front of him. It wouldn’t do him any good without intimate knowledge of MI6’s protocols. He wished it was a compass, one tuned to point at its owner instead of North. 

A sudden thought struck him. Curt sat up, his mind forming an idea.  _ His watch.  _ Curt wanted to smack his own forehead. How had he not thought of it before? 

He turned on his communicator. 

“Barb? Barb, come in.” 

He waited silently.

“Read you loud and clear, Agent,” Barb’s squeaky voice called. Curt grinned in excitement. 

“Barb, thank God. I need you to track Agent Carvour’s location by his communicator.”

“The MI6 agent?”

“Yes, him,” Curt replied.  _ That and so much more.  _

“Curt,” Barb hesitated, “I don’t have a direct -”

“But you have something don’t you?” Curt screwed his eyes shut and prayed to any god that was listening. They had to have something in that lab of theirs. 

“Well, it really isn’t within our jurisdiction…”

“Barb, please. Owen is in danger.”

“I know, Curt, I just…” Barb trailed off. Curt waited with bated breath. “I suppose I could try and hack MI6’s communication systems and use the local signals to triangulate -”

“Thank you, Barb,” Curt cut her off. 

“It’ll take some time. MI6 won’t be easy to crack.”

Curt swallowed. “I know, just be as quick as you can.” He felt a little better now. He had a lead. He  _ would  _ get his friend back. “Call me when you find something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho! Somebody's got a crush! Too bad it's unrequited... Psych!
> 
> School sucks but I'll hopefully have another chapter soon. Torture time's a commin'!


	6. Gotta Stay Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture

Ice washed over Owen’s body, forcing it into wakefulness. Through his dripping hair, his eyes darted over dark shadows and cold walls. His lungs struggled to pull in a shuddering breath. He shivered uncontrollably as his breathing slowed, his eyes finally landing on the man in front of him holding an empty bucket. 

Grisha. The enforcer. 

“Now, now, Mr. Edwards,” said Konstantin from the corner of the room, his lips curled in a chastising sneer. Owen shook as his memories of the past few hours came back to him in a muddled haze. “We don’t have time for you to sleep now do we?” 

Owen stayed silent. He didn’t trust his teeth not to chatter if he opened up his mouth.

Konstantin stepped closer, the light from overhead creating ghostly shadows in the hollows of his face. He reached his hand forward and Owen flinched. He cursed at himself. 

“Easy now, Mr. Edwards,” Konstantin said, brushing the drenched hair out of Owen’s eyes. “I was just trying to get a good look at your face.”

The corner of Owen’s lip twitched. “Not the best come on I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take it.”

Owen heard the slap before he felt it. The sting bloomed across his cheek in a second’s delay. 

“Comments like that are going to get you into trouble, Mr. Edwards.”

Owen blinked the water from his eyes. 

This back and forth was getting old. Konstantin would ask him something benign, Owen would reply with an indirect insult, Grisha would hurt him. He could tell Konstantin’s patience was beginning to wane. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up himself, if he was being honest.

So far, they hadn’t allowed him to sleep. They would leave the room for short breaks but every time Owen’s eyes started to close he would be rudely awakened by one man or the other. This led Owen to believe it had been at least two days since his capture. Thirty-six hours was usually when Owen started to get drowsy, but he hadn’t really taken the torture into account, so it could be less. Two days was a long time to be missing.

Curt had to have told someone he was missing by now. An extraction team wouldn’t be that hard to mobilize with MI6’s base in Bursa. 

Unless… something had gone wrong. If something had happened to Curt on this mission then they could both be out of luck. 

Owen swallowed down his doubt. Curt was fine. He was fully capable of completing that mission. He was probably just having some communication issues. Yes, that must be it. MI6 liked to think they were all so organized but the bureaucratic limbo one had to tiptoe through to get anything done in that organization was migraine-inducing. 

Yes, that must be what was wrong. He must just keep getting transferred to different departments over, and over, and over...

Owen jolted awake as another slap stung his face, cracking the parched skin on his upper lip. 

“Mr. Edwards, you really must try and stay awake for us,” Konstantin frowned. “We still hardly know anything about you.”

Owen slipped his tongue in between his bleeding lip and his teeth in lieu of another comeback. He really was starting to get tired and his head was killing him. That, and his leg. If they didn’t do anything with it soon, Owen was sure it was going to get infected. 

“So, let’s try again.” Konstantin was back in his corner, leaning against the wall casually like some temptress in a darkened speakeasy. The flame from his lighter illuminated his gaunt features. His cigarette smoldered to life. Smoke curled up into the shadows of the ceiling. “Who do you work for?”

“I’ve told you three times already,” Owen said, already preparing for another strike across his face. “I work for a security team in London. I was hired to protect a client in Turkey for three days and then I’d go back home.”

Konstantin frowned. He waved his cigarette vaguely. Grisha took that as an excuse to try and fracture Owen’s cheekbone. The spy grunted through the pain. 

“Fine, fine, let’s say that this is true,” said Konstantin. “That doesn’t explain how you knew where to locate our organization.”

“Look -  _ sir. _ ” Owen forced out the word as if it was stuck in his throat. “I’m just a bodyguard for hire. My clients don’t tell me anything. I just do what they say.”

Konstantin took a contemplative drag. Owen eyed the burning end of his cigarette warily. 

“This client of yours… where was he when we found you?”

Owen shrugged. “I don’t know. He took off after some random guy.”

“He left you?” Konstantin questioned. Smoke streamed from his nostrils. 

“It’s not like we were friends…” Owen trailed off, not sure what to say afterward. “I was just doing a job.”

Konstantin hummed, stepping closer. “Interesting.” 

He beckoned to his henchmen. Grisha lumbered over, nodding after Konstantin muttered something in Russian that Owen didn’t quite catch. Russian had never been Owen’s strongest language. 

He watched Grisha exit the room, leaving Konstantin in his place. 

“Do you want to know what I think is interesting, Mr. Edwards?”

Owen stifled a groan as he tried to stretch his injured leg. “Not particularly.”

Konstantin strode closer. From behind him, Grisha entered with some sort of instrument in his hand. Owen just wanted to sleep. 

Konstantin came to a stop next to Owen. The spy strained to look up at him, his skin pulling where it was beginning to swell around his eye. He took another drag from his cigarette. Small particles of ash floated down onto Owen’s sleeve. The smell of tobacco hung in the air. 

Owen narrowed his eyes dangerously. If he went anywhere near him with that cigarette - 

“I find it interesting,” began Konstantin, “that you think it beneficial to keep being a  _ liar.” _

Konstantin moved to put out his cigarette on Owen’s neck. Owen barely felt the heat before his teeth found the other man’s flesh and bit down, hard. Konstantin yelped and pulled his hand away. Owen felt skin tear beneath his teeth. 

“сукин сын!” 

Owen spit Konstantin’s blood at his feet, a vindictive smile curving the corners of his mouth.  _ How does that feel?  _

Konstantin glared at Owen, holding his bloody hand to his chest. There was a new fire in his eyes, dangerous, sadistic. 

_ There goes the rest of his patience,  _ Owen thought somewhat ruefully. 

“Boss?” Grisha asked. This was obviously not a situation the man encountered often. 

Konstantin seethed. “Give me that!” 

Grisha handed over the instrument. Owen’s regret grew as he recognized the device. He stabbed at Owen’s side with the rod. Owen’s muscles seized painfully as electricity coursed through his entire body. He gasped when the shock finally relented. He looked up at his tormentor through half-closed eyes. 

“You are going to start telling the truth,” Konstantin growled. Pain erupted under his skin once more, forcing a strangled cry from his lips. Konstantin stepped away. Owen panted as the last of the spasms twitched through his fingers.

“Grisha,” Konstantin snapped. He handed the cattle prod back to the thug. From his pocket, he took out a clean, white handkerchief. He wrapped it around his still bleeding hand, grimacing. Owen took some comfort in that. 

“Have your fun,” Konstantin said at last. Grisha grinned. 

Owen liked to think he had quite a high tolerance for pain. From an early age, he learned how to take a punch, when to stay his tears, when to dust himself off and trudge on. Then again, on nearly all those occasions, he was allowed, at least in some capacity, to fight back. 

Here, he could do nothing but try and suppress his screams. Even as the smell of his own burning flesh wafted into the air, he wouldn’t give the bastards the satisfaction. He was really getting tired, though. In between the spasms, he could feel the darkness at the edges of his vision like a blanket, urging him into unconsciousness. 

Owen’s chin fell against his chest as the cattle prod retreated for a moment. He was so delirious he thought he heard a knock at the door. No one had ever knocked before. 

Konstantin opened the door. Owen could barely focus but he thought he saw another man in the darkened hallway. He was agitated, speaking quietly. Finally, their conversation seemed to come to an end. Konstantin turned back to his henchman. 

“Подождите минутку.”  _ Wait a moment.  _

Owen nearly smiled in relief as he watched Konstantin leave the room, the door shutting with a resounding thud. 

Finally, a reprieve. If they kept coming at him with the cattle prod, Owen was sure to pass out. He took a deep breath while he was allowed. 

Perhaps something had gone wrong. Something was complicating their mission. Maybe they wouldn’t have time to focus on Owen for a while. Maybe they would be forced to let him go. 

His eyes began to close.  _ Zap!  _ Owen jolted awake. Grisha stood in front of him. 

“No sleep,” he grunted.

“Yeah, got it. Thanks for the reminder,” Owen grimaced. His entire body ached. He shifted in his chair to try and relieve -  _ something _ \- but it didn’t seem to do much good. 

He flinched as the door burst open. Konstantin strode into the room. He was smiling again. 

Fear crept up Owen’s throat. 

The man dangled a wristwatch from his uninjured hand.  _ Owen’s _ watch. He knew his surprise must have shown on his face because Konstantin’s smile grew. 

Owen stared at the clock face, a spark of hope glinting in the back of his mind. If he could get to his watch, he could try and contact MI6. They could get him out of here. They could rescue him. He desperately tried to think of a strategy to talk Konstantin into handing it over, but his mind was too clouded by pain and fatigue. He had to think of something!

“Agent Carvour, do you read me?” a female voice called from the watch, small and scratchy. 

Owen’s eyebrows twitched. His one eye that wasn’t swollen shut blinked in confusion. 

“Agent Carvour? Are you there?”

Who was that? They sounded American. 

“Owen, this is Barb Larvernor, do you read me?”

Owen followed the watch with his eyes as Konstantin moved to set it on the ground. The name sounded familiar. Curt had mentioned her once or twice in past missions. Yes, that was it! But what was she doing speaking to him through his watch?

“Barb?” His voice sounded hoarse. 

“Owen? Owen, is that you?”

Konstantin raised his foot. Owen realized too late what was happening. 

“No, wait!”

The man’s boot smashed across the clock face. The glass shattered. Barb’s voice died along with Owen’s only hope of communication. His heart sank. 

Konstantin kicked aside the broken communicator, his eyes narrowed. Owen licked his chapped lips nervously, the hours of torture finally coming to a head. He was afraid. 

“So, Mr. Edwards…” Konstantin approached him slowly. He crouched so that his eyes met Owen’s levelly. “Or should I say, Agent Carvour?”

Owen’s pulse quickened, but neither flight nor fight was a possible option. 

“Perhaps our introduction was a bit too stale. How about we start from the beginning.” Konstantin poked at the bullet wound in his leg, breaking whatever minimal clotting had built up. Owen ground his teeth together to keep from shouting out. He felt fresh blood ooze down his leg.

Konstantin smiled pleasantly and rose to his feet. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but stern. 

“I’m going to ask this once, Agent Carvour. I would advise that you answer quickly. Who do you work for and what are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Owen. Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter up soon. Let me know what you thought!


	7. Running Out of Time

“Curt!”

Curt’s eyes snapped open. He sat up stiffly in his bed and brought his communicator to his face. 

“Barb?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Barb said, clearly relieved to have contacted him. “Listen, if my calculations are correct, I got a lock on Agent Carvour’s location.”

Relief flooded through Curt.  _ Finally. _

“I - I think he’s in trouble,” Barb said. 

Curt stood, the last remnants of his fatigue vanishing under the weight of his new task. “Where is he?”

“He’s in an abandoned canning factory just west of the Grecian border. Have you got a pen and paper?”

Curt strode over to the map he’d spread out over the table in the corner. Barb gave him the rough coordinates. He’d have to do the rest himself. 

“Got it. Barb, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Agent,” Barb replied, though she sounded proud. “We’ve got virtually zero intelligence about these people. Curt… you’ll be going in blind.”

Curt swallowed. He had to do this. He didn’t have a choice. He had to get Owen back, his friend...maybe something more. 

_ Stop. Focus.  _

“Thanks, Barb.” Curt studied the map. It would take at least an hour to get there. “I owe you one.”

“Sure, Curt, anytime. It’s really no problem,” she squeaked bashfully. 

Curt moved to say his goodbyes and turn off his communicator but Barb spoke up again. 

“Before you go, you should know… Cynthia’s in a mood. I heard her yelling on my way to get coffee. Something about your late report?”

Curt sighed.

“She’s not going to like this,” Barb warned.

“Well, she doesn’t like most of the things I do,” Curt said resignedly. “I guess she’ll just have to learn to live with it.”

He folded up the map and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. 

“Good luck, Curt. I’ll be standing by if you need anything.”

He shut off his communicator and took stock of his inventory. His gun, two full magazines, a map, his bag, Owen’s, and a fully stocked first aid kit he’d picked up while he had waited for Barb’s call. It wasn’t much but it would have to do. He gathered his things and left his safe house. 

Outside, he scanned the long line of cars parked on the street for the night. Curt sighed. It wasn’t the first or the last time he would steal a car. 

He tried the first one he saw, looking out for civilians. Locked. He tried the next one. He grinned as the driver side door opened easily. He clambered in, dropping his luggage in the passenger seat. As soon as he was able to hot-wire the car, he was on the road. 

Buildings passed outside the car windows. Street lights blurred together as Curt’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He tried to calm his turbulent mind, focus on the travel, but his thoughts kept wandering to unsavory scenes of Owen’s capture. 

Curt had been kidnapped before. He’d been tortured. He knew what it was like. The thought of it happening to Owen… Well, it made his stomach turn and his heart pound. 

He should never have left him. 

He reached into his jacket pocket for his flask and took a quick swig to calm his nerves. His stomach settled slightly. 

Curt checked his map again just as his communicator beeped. His heart leaped to his throat. Barb had an update for him. 

“Mega,” he answered. 

“Where in the ever-loving-fuck are you?” 

It was not Barb. 

Even over the small speaker of his communicator, Curt could tell Cynthia was more pissed off than usual. Over the years he had come to identify varying levels of irateness from his superior. Curt winced despite himself. 

“Cynthia,” he said, attempting to placate the woman. 

“Don’t you start with me, Mega. I asked you a question.” 

Curt chewed on his lip as he took the next exit. “I’m getting Owen back.”

“Like hell you are!”

“I am!” Curt said, a defensive anger surging into his voice. This was his fault. He was going to fix it. 

“Mega, you listen to me.” Cynthia’s voice was dangerously low. “Agent Carvour is not your problem right now.”

“Then whose  _ problem _ is he,” Curt retorted. He could feel his face growing red. His friend’s safety wasn’t just some trivial task to put on a to-do list. He was so much more than that.

“MI6 has their protocols. The last thing they want is some foreigner fucking with them,” Cynthia said. There was a little less force to her voice. Perhaps she had a conscience after all. 

Curt flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, that sounds like  _ my _ problem.” If no one else was going to help Owen then Curt would gladly step up and take on the responsibility. 

“Goddammit, Mega. We need to follow their objectives on this! We can’t let one mission gone wrong fuck up an entire history of cooperation. He’s one agent.”

“You’re right,” Curt spat. “I’m sure it won’t matter at all.”

“Alright, that’s it.” Curt heard a faint thud and he imagined his boss slamming her tiny fist on her desk in frustration. “My patience has shrunk to the size of your dick, Mega. If you drive another mile toward him I will personally kick your ass so hard you’ll never be able to shit again.”

Curt was silent. His heart pounded in his chest. 

There was a pause on the other end of the call as if she were waiting for his surrender. Curt focused on the road ahead of him. 

“It’s your fucking job on the line, Mega. Not mine,” she said. 

Curt ended the call. His heart thudded in his chest. He’d been in worse trouble before. Cynthia would never fire him. 

But she had sounded actually upset. Maybe he’d finally crossed a line. 

No. His job was secure. He was the best spy they had. They couldn’t afford to fire him. And even if they did… what better way to end it than one last heroic deed. 

Curt held the car steady as he reached to turn off the locator on his watch.  _ Plausible deniability, _ he told himself. 

Still, if it was to be Owen or his livelihood, he’d choose Owen every time. 

He checked the map again as the moon rose higher in the sky. 

He would rescue Owen. No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I've got a long one coming up next. Stay safe my peeps!


	8. Knew You'd Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture at the beginning

Owen screamed as his fingernail was ripped away from the nail bed, pain engulfing his hand. He panted as he tried to focus on the gore at the end of his finger through the sweat dripping into his eyes. His right hand trembled relentlessly in the wake of its assault. 

Konstantin glowered over him, dark circles under his eyes. Just as Owen hadn’t been allowed to sleep, his captors weren’t faring much better. It gave Owen hope that their organization wasn’t fully staffed. Perhaps, he could eventually escape. Though, he didn’t know how much longer he’d live if this kept up. 

They were past questioning now. Konstantin seemed to be out for revenge, either for being duped or for his wounded hand Owen didn’t know. All he knew was that a fever had settled into his body about an hour ago and everything in his body was running its last big effort to keep him afloat. It even hurt to breathe. Grisha had made sure of that when he’d cracked two of Owen’s ribs. 

“Did you like that, Cavour?” Konstantin asked. He examined the bloody fingernail closely at the end of his rusty pliers. “Shall I do it again?”

He forced Owen’s hand flat against the arm of the chair, Owen’s weakened muscles no match against his strength. The pliers came to rest against the edge of his thumb. Owen glared at him. Konstantin smiled cruelly. Owen could do nothing to stifle the cry of pain as Konstantin began to pull, slowly, torturously, until another nail was completely detached. 

Owen could no longer tell if there was sweat or tears in his eyes. Still, he managed to tilt his head so that he could look rebelliously up at his tormentor. 

“I’ve still got eight more if you want to finish the set,” Owen rasped. 

Konstantin’s fist connected with his stomach. Owen doubled over and wheezed in a breath just as Konstantin grabbed his hair and pulled. His head snapped up to look at him. The Russian bared his teeth in a weak mimicry of a smile. His eyes looked hungry. 

“It will be my pleasure,” he hissed. He released Owen with a shove and raised his pliers threateningly. 

_ Bang! _

All three of the men jumped at the sudden noise. It had sounded like a gunshot, distant, but there all the same. He saw Konstantin and Grisha look at each other nervously. 

Another two shots rang out and Owen forced his clouded mind to think. God, he just wanted to sleep. He coughed feebly, his vision blurry and his thoughts sluggish. 

His captors were clearly under attack. He had to find a way to use their weakness to escape. Maybe he could bargain with the attackers. Maybe they could help him get out of this place. He blinked slowly, darkness pulling at the edges of his vision. He really didn’t have much to offer them, but it was worth a shot. He heard Konstantin snap something at Grisha in Russian but he was too tired to translate. Both men neared the door. Konstantin pushed the larger man out first. Owen closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the men were gone.

Owen slumped back into his chair.  _ Just a few more moments of wakefulness and then you can rest _ , he told himself. Through the open door, Owen could hear sounds of a struggle. He hoped, whoever they were, that they were killing each other. He let his eyes fall closed again, the pain in his head becoming overwhelming. 

“Owen?”

The spy opened his eyes slowly, confusion lining his face. 

“Curt?” It had sounded like his partner’s voice but he couldn’t be sure. Had he actually come back for him? 

He tried to focus his vision enough to see the man in the doorway. Relief flooded through him when he saw familiar eyes. It numbed the pain in his head for a moment. 

His friend’s usual grin was gone, replaced with something akin to horror. 

“Do I look that bad,” he wheezed. 

His voice seemed to snap him out of whatever paralysis had overtaken him. He surged forward to kneel before him, his eyes flitting over every scrap of discoloured skin, every spec of blood. His hands were raised as if he wanted to touch him but he seemed to think better of it at the last second.

“Owen, I - I’m so sorry - this is-”

“Just get me out of here,” Owen panted. 

Curt’s eyes widened. He looked down and Owen’s many restraints and stood quickly, nearly running back to the hall. When he returned he held a handcuff key. He knelt to uncuff his ankles first. 

“That leg looks bad,” he muttered. Owen shivered. Curt glanced up at his face, his hand coming to rest gently on his forehead. Owen closed his eyes. “Fuck, Owen, you’re burning up. You’ve probably got an infection.”

Owen let him talk. He knew Curt started to ramble when he got nervous. He let his voice wash over him as he stated the obvious. It was familiar. Comforting even. 

He felt his left hand be freed from his restraints. 

“Christ,” Curt breathed. Owen struggled to open his eyes again. Curt was hesitating over his mutilated right hand, transfixed by the gore. 

“Curt,” Owen urged. He didn’t have the energy to comfort his friend over his own injuries. He could feel himself beginning to fade, unable to convince his body to stay awake in the presence of safe hands.

Curt’s guilt-ridden eyes came to meet his own. 

“Please.”

Curt’s jaw clenched, new determination steeling his wavering confidence. He unlocked the last of Owen’s restraints and stood. 

“Owen?” 

Owen woke slowly. When had he fallen asleep? He felt a gentle hand on the side of his neck. Curt’s wide eyes loomed in front of him. 

“I’m just gonna carry you to the car,” he said almost to himself. Owen didn’t argue with him. 

Curt’s arm’s wrapped under his knees and around his back. Owen was lifted from the chair like he was nothing. 

_ When did he get so strong? _ Owen wondered just as unconsciousness took over again. 

When he next awoke he was sitting upright in the passenger seat of a car. Curt was next to him, holding the base of his head. He was saying something.

“...antibiotics, okay? And some water. You look like you’ve been stranded in the desert for a week. Just a little bit more and then you can go back to sleep I promise.”

Owen took the pills and the canteen wordlessly. The water felt amazing. He drained the entire bottle. Once Curt was satisfied he’d taken all that he needed, he started the car and the rattling of the old engine pulled Owen back into blackness.

It wasn’t quite the blissful sleep he had been hoping for. For one, he couldn’t seem to get his body to relax. Even if he were able to quiet his mind for a moment, he didn’t think his muscles would have done the same. Everything was tense. Everything ached. His only reprieve was the few hazy moments of consciousness when he realized again that Curt was beside him, putting all the more distance between him and his torturers.

He didn’t know where they were going, but he trusted Curt to take them somewhere safe. Somewhere soft. He felt he deserved a break after all that he’d been through. 

_ All for the fucking job. _

+++++++++++++++++++++

Owen flinched awake at the sound of a door opening. He looked around wildly. He didn’t know where he was. He appeared to be in a large bed. The walls around him were white, illuminated by a standing lamp in the corner. A window to his right displayed the dim colors of dusk or dawn, Owen couldn’t tell. 

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Curt stood in the doorway of the small bedroom. He’d taken off his jacket, his button-up shirt was untucked and the sleeves were rolled up. There was a streak of red on his right shoulder, probably a remnant of his mangled face. 

“Where the hell are we?” Owen choked out. His throat still felt raw. 

“A safe house in Greece.” He came into the room slowly, his movements tentative. 

Owen raised his eyebrows as best he could. “You managed to get me across the border looking like this.”

Curt grinned. “Never underestimate the power of a little hush money, old boy.” He looked him over again, his face beginning to flush. “I drew you a bath. I can patch you up better once you’re clean and, well, you -”

“I know I smell,” Owen interrupted. He smelled like sweat and urine and fear. He ached to be free of it. 

Curt gave a feeble smile. “No offense.”

“Can’t be helped,” Owen resigned. He shifted his arm to try and prop himself up onto his elbows but winced as he disturbed his cracked ribs. “I, however, will be in need of some assistance.”

Curt lowered his eyes to the ground as he stepped forward, as if trying to give him some privacy in his moment of weakness. Owen appreciated the courtesy but he couldn’t have cared less. The last thing he needed was to slip and die in the bath and if Curt was going to help avoid that then it was fine with Owen. 

Owen raised his arm to wrap it around Curt’s neck as he bent to pick him up off the bed. Carefully, Curt carried him out of the bedroom. Owen studied the plain white walls as Curt walked down the hallway. It was much nicer than many of the other safehouses they’d seen. He guessed it was one of A.S.S.’s. 

They entered the bathroom and Curt set him down on the toilet. Owen looked at the bathwater next to him longingly. He stared down at his clothes and momentarily convinced himself to just jump in the tub as he was and skip the hassle. The trip from the bedroom to the bathroom had apparently worn him out. 

Curt seemed, for once, to be completely out of his depth. He was the physical embodiment of hesitation, hovering halfway between the door and Owen, unsure of where to place his gaze. 

Owen finally took pity on him. 

“I think I can manage from here.” 

Curt nodded and backed into the doorway. “Just don’t pass out and drown,” he chuckled weakly. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” He closed the door behind him. 

Owen took a deep breath and began unbuttoning his shirt with his uninjured hand. He shrugged out of his sleeves. His undershirt was over his head with only a minor pause when the action troubled his ribs. He struggled slightly with his trousers and pants but soon was free of them as well. 

He tested his weight on his uninjured leg, standing shakily. He felt the blood rush from his head but he quickly recovered. It was amazing what a little sleep could improve. 

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself into the warm water. It both soothed and stung his wounds, but Owen sighed and closed his eyes, nonetheless. Finally, he could relax. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah reunited at last! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is keeping up with the story. Every kudo is another drop in the motivation tank!


	9. Tell me if it hurts

Curt had run out of alcohol. 

He had downed the last of it when he contacted Barb about what to do about Owen’s fingernails. He had never seen that type of injury before and he didn’t want to get it wrong. 

Barb had also asked where he was. He hadn’t told her. He didn’t really know how to feel about A.S.S. right now. Their reluctance to help him find Owen had injured his faith for the moment. It didn’t help that he was not looking forward to Cynthia’s wrath when he finally did return. Barb had said she’d been distracted by some crisis in Spain so at least she was preoccupied for the time being. 

Curt leaned back against the wall where he sat guarding the bathroom door like a Roman centurion of old. 

Owen had been in there a long time. The water had probably gone cold. 

Curt stared silently at the wall in front of him. He had thought it best to give Owen some space but the inactivity was nearly killing him. Curt had never been a patient man. He struggled with stakeouts and deep cover missions. He always lost at chess when he played Owen. Curt was a man of action, as his mother liked to say. Most of the time, he saw what he wanted and found a way to get it.

And yet, when it came to Owen, Curt felt that he couldn’t be so impulsive. Owen was quiet, deliberate, thoughtful. It was just the way he operated. It was what he responded to best. 

He knew Owen needed time to recover now. 

Curt usually tried to throw himself right back into whatever conflict had inflicted his trauma in the first place. It made sense that Owen would do the opposite. Curt wondered, not for the first time, how it was they got along so well together when their behavior was so estranged. 

He heard the water begin to drain from the bathtub and quickly got to his feet. His hand hovered over the door, fully prepared to knock. He stopped himself. Owen would call him if he needed him. He picked up the medkit at his feet. He felt jittery, his fingers tapping restlessly on the case in his hands. 

His mind drifted again to images of Owen’s body. The bruises on his face, the blood on his clothes, the mangled flesh at the end of his fingers. An ice-cold fist wrapped around his heart. Guilt roiled in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not while he could help it.

The bathroom was silent again. Curt stood as still as he could, which admittedly, wasn’t very still. At last, there was a noise from the other side of the door. 

“Curt?”

Curt took a deep breath and opened the door slightly, just enough to poke his head through. Owen was sitting in the empty tub, a look of inconvenience on his face as if he had just seen a rather long line of traffic. 

“Could I bother you to help me out?” he asked resignedly. 

Curt stepped inside slowly and nearly let out a breath of relief when he saw that Owen had already wrapped a towel around himself. His relief was short-lived, though. The sight of Owen’s exposed chest only tightened the fist around his heart. His left side was purple with bruises, the skin around it angry and red. Below his ribs were several two-pronged burns, already swollen and blistered. Curt recognized those marks. 

_ Oh, sweetheart, what did they do to you? _

He shuffled forward, unable to tear his eyes away from the patterns on Owen’s chest. He felt Owen’s eyes on him as he set down the medkit and reached forward, grasping the man beneath his armpits and heaving him upwards. Owen grunted but managed to stay on his feet. Curt steadied him as he slowly stepped out of the tub and sat down on the toilet seat. The man winced as he raised his hand to comb the hair out of his eyes. 

Curt sat on the ground in front of him and pulled the medkit into his lap. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Owen said. His voice was soft. “I can manage from here.”

Curt’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m helping you.”

Owen raised his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of a shrug. 

Curt pulled out the antibiotics first and handed him two. “You need to take those for at least a week. It looks like your fever broke but I don’t want to take any risks.”

Owen swallowed them dry. He should get him some more water, Curt thought, as his eyes ran over his partner’s cracked lips. But first, the bullet wound in his leg. He pulled on the gloves from the pack and rifled through the supplies until he found the suture kit and something to sterilize it with. He found a small bottle with a saline solution and flushed the wound. 

Owen didn’t even flinch. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “How long was I gone?”

“A little over three days,” Curt answered while searching his face but Owen remained stoic, saying nothing. “They didn’t give you any food or water did they?”

Owen shook his head. Curt tried to thread the needle faster. 

“I’ll get you some food as soon as I’m done patching you up. All the shops are closed right now so I’ll have to see what I can rummage up with the rations in the kitchen.” A.S.S. usually left enough food for at least three days in their safehouses. He hoped they had done the same with this one.

Gently as he could, he maneuvered Owen’s leg so that his heel rested against his hip, bringing the injury closer. All things considered, it could have been worse. Owen had done a thorough job of cleaning it. The action had caused it to start bleeding again but otherwise, the usual signs of infection were low. Owen was lucky the bullet hadn’t hit bone. 

He started the needle through the entrance wound first, pulling the skin together slowly but surely. He was on the fifth stitch when Owen spoke up.

“How did you find me?”

Curt didn’t look away from the task in front of him but he could feel how distant Owen was being without even looking at him. 

“Your watch,” Curt answered, carefully closing the first wound. “I tried asking A.S.S. for help but they weren’t concerned. I found your pocket watch in your bag but I didn’t have a ‘valid identification code’ so MI6 didn’t want to talk to me.”

Curt didn’t care if his bitterness showed in his voice. He moved to start on the exit wound. 

“I ended up having to call Barb and ask if she could do anything with the locator on your watch. It took her the better part of two days but she finally got a lock on you. I drove out as soon as I knew where to look for you.”

“I’ll have to tell MI6 to up their security.”

“You need to tell them to keep better care of their agents.”

Owen scoffed above him but said nothing. Curt tried to focus on the task in front of him. They were both silent for a moment. 

He could feel Owen deep in thought, his mind pondering numerous scenarios. He often wondered of the specifics of what went on his partner’s head when he got quiet like this. Were there ever random, silly thoughts? Did his imagination ever make him laugh? Or did they always end in tragic realism, with mortality and logic?

He snipped the end of the thread carefully. He hoped one day Owen might tell him. 

“So we still don’t know who these people are,” Owen said, awaiting confirmation. 

Curt shook his head ruefully as he wrapped Owen’s calf in a light bandage. “I wish I did. Clearly, they are more powerful than we thought.”

He raised his head as he finished the bandage and looked at the rest of the injuries dotting his partner’s body. He decided to treat the burns next, even though he felt a bit sick looking at them. 

Electrical burns were always the ugliest. Curt had only been electrocuted once in his career but it wasn’t something he would ever forget. It was an exhausting method of torture - and dangerous. There was a very good possibility one could die if their heart wasn’t up to full health. 

It pained Curt to imagine Owen under such agony. 

He found some sterile gauze in the medkit and folded his legs underneath him so he could better reach Owen’s torso. 

Owen remained silent as Curt carefully covered his burns. After he was done he examined the bruises along Owen’s ribs. His fingers brushed along the edges of the injury. He looked questioningly up at Owen. 

“I’m fairly sure he cracked two,” said Owen, avoiding his eyes. 

Curt nodded. “I’ll get you some ice when I get the food. Let me see your hand.”

Owen let Curt take his right hand in his own. He maneuvered his fingers softly and sighed. It didn’t look quite as bad now that it was clean. 

“Barb said there’s really nothing else we can do but keep it clean. I can put a bandage on for now but you’ll just have to wait for them to grow back.”

Owen nodded. Curt wrapped them up as gently as he could. He rose from the floor, his legs a bit stiff. Owen’s gaze remained where it was. The swelling had gone down around his eye, allowing him to see out of both of them and leaving a dark half-moon shape around his eye socket. A greenish bronze color dappled the skin across his cheek like a storm cloud. Purple shadowed along his jawline and the skin above his eyebrow looked ready to split. 

Curt still thought he looked impossibly handsome. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly and bent to tidy the remnants of his caretaking endeavors. 

“I’ll bring you your bag, so you can get dressed.”

He left Owen sitting on the toilet seat in his towel, staring at a spot on the tile floor. When he returned with Owen’s bag, the man had not moved. He set the bag in the sink.

“Yell if you need me. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Owen nodded once in acknowledgment. Curt shut the door behind him and turned the corner into the kitchen. 

It honestly wasn’t a bad apartment as far as safehouses went. The kitchen was not too crowded and there was even a separate living area with armchairs when you first entered. Everything was strangely white, but it was certainly better than the ugly brown of their last safehouse. 

He opened the first cabinet and found two plates, a singular glass, and a bowl. The next cabinet held what he was looking for, though it was pretty slim pickings. Curt took out a can of beans and a box of crackers and went about looking for a pot. It only took two tries to find one. 

He set the beans on the stove to warm up and began setting the table for his friend. 

Owen’s dinner was nearly cooked by the time Curt had finished setting out a glass of water and crackers. He went to turn back to the stove but he was surprised by Owen’s silent form in the doorway. He seemed to have chosen to forgo normal daywear, dressing only in his boxers and a clean white t-shirt. Curt assumed he’d be back in bed after his meal. He needed all the rest he could get. 

Owen looked about the room curiously, probably comparing the place to past accommodations. He took a tentative step forward.

Curt had to stop himself from rushing to his side. Owen wouldn’t want his help all of the time. As if trying to prove Curt’s point, the spy limped over to the table, sitting heavily in front of the water. He took it and drained the glass in three seconds. He looked at Curt a bit sheepishly. 

Curt refilled his glass with a grin. 

“Thank you,” Owen said, taking the water gratefully. “For your help.”

“Of course,” Curt answered, finding no other response appropriate. Of course, Curt would help Owen if he needed it. There was no other option. 

Owen licked his lips and eyed the stove wistfully. “What did you find?”

Curt blinked out of a stare he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He turned back to the stove to plate up Owen’s midnight snack. 

“Beans. I’ll get you some real food tomorrow. I know you’ll be starving again within the hour.” He set the plate down in front of Owen and handed him a fork, a jolt of excitement rushing through him when their fingers brushed. 

_ Get a hold of yourself, Mega.  _

Owen dug in immediately, probably burning his mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. Curt felt a grin curve his mouth, for once at a loss for words. The relief of having his partner back, safe and able to heal, finally hit him like a car. Even watching Owen scarf down a plate of plain beans seemed like a miracle. 

_ It’s probably because of your new crush _ , he told himself. He pushed the thought aside. He could deal with the meaning of that word later. 

Now, he could take care of Owen while he needed him. Even if that meant doing the dishes. He cleared Owen’s empty plate as the man started eating the crackers Curt had left for him. 

He was about to turn on the sink when Owen’s voice broke through the comfortable silence. 

“Did you kill them?” 

Curt looked back at Owen. The spy chewed thoughtfully on a saltine, staring at an unidentifiable point in front of him. Curt blinked at the suddenness of his question. He turned the water on briefly and rinsed the plate. 

“Kill who?”

“The people in that place.” Owen took another sip of water. 

Curt tried to think. He knew he knocked out three by the entrance in an attempt at stealth. He’d shot one in the shoulder and another in the leg before hitting him in the head with his pistol. He may have mortally wounded one of the other men he shot. He couldn’t really remember. His mind had been preoccupied. 

“One, maybe,” Curt said, setting the plate aside to dry. “I didn’t check to see.”

Owen popped another cracker into his mouth. He still wasn’t looking at him. 

“Did he have gray hair? A wound on his hand?”

Curt tried to think. “No,” he said at last. “He was younger. Blonde.” 

Owen hummed noncommittally but apparently had nothing else to say on the matter. He drained his glass of water again. Curt’s eyebrows came together in concern of the silence but tried not to worry. If Owen wanted to tell him about it he would. 

Owen finally tore his eyes away from whatever he’d been watching. 

“Well, I’m knackered. Bed?”

Curt let his features relax, his apprehension fading into the background. Sleep sounded wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmm, some classic hurt/comfort.
> 
> *Slaps roof of fic* this bad boy can fit so many cliches in it!
> 
> I hope you don't mind.


	10. You are too kind to me

Owen laid awake, staring at the ceiling. Curt’s steady breathing beside him should have lulled him right to sleep but he couldn’t seem to get his body to relax. The painkillers Curt had given him after dinner were working, dulling the pain in his various wounds to a dull ache, but still, he could not sleep. 

It was ironic really. Now that he knew he was safe he couldn’t be bothered to close his eyes. 

Perhaps a part of him was still there, in that dark room without any defense. He still felt tense. He couldn’t help the way his eyes darted about the room, looking for an incoming attack. The light from the window taunted him, drawing his eyes away and to the corners of the room where the shadows were deepest. The glow of Konstantin’s cigarette floated in the darkness. Owen’s heart pounded in his chest.

He shut his eyes, his entire body as rigid as a spring coil.  _ It’s not real. It’s just in your head.  _

He turned his head and tried to focus on Curt instead. He could just make out the outline of his partner’s features; the slope of his nose, his slightly parted lips. 

He looked vulnerable. 

Owen often wondered when and why he and Curt and decided to trust each other enough to sleep in the same bed. It seemed counterintuitive to have a spy so close to you while you slept. Mission after mission passed and they may have bickered about a particular strategy - hell, their respective agencies would even be at war at times - but there had always been a sort of unspoken truce when it came down to it. He never quite understood.

He was sure the act was unprecedented. He didn’t dare mention it to any of his colleagues, least of all his superiors. They’d no doubt take it in poor taste.

It was a shame, Owen thought. It was rather nice to have someone like Curt to focus on instead of the shadows. His silhouette pulled him away from the dark corners, his breathing engulfed his ears.

He sighed and felt his eyelids growing heavier. 

Owen’s breath started to match his partner’s. He was so easy to look at, so easy to be close to. His body relaxed into the mattress and let his eyes fall closed. 

+++++++++++++++++++

Owen gasped awake. Everything was dark. He didn’t know where he was but that didn’t stop him from trying to shield his face. Something was going to hurt him. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Curt’s voice mumbled from his side. 

The hand on his arm made him flinch. He tried to pull away but the hand remained, gentle but firm.

“Owen, it’s alright. You’re alright.” 

The fingers on his arm began to move, up and down, soft and attentive. He felt a hand at the side of his face, his fingertips dragging through the hair at his temple. 

_ Curt.  _ He nearly sighed in relief. He was safe with Curt. Curt would never hurt him. In fact, he seemed to be doing quite the opposite. The touch at his temple was soft. Soothing. Kind. 

Owen couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that. Like they cared.

He looked over at his partner, trying to clear the haze of the nightmare from his vision. He could just make out his furrowed brow in the dim light of the bedroom. His breathing slowed. 

“You okay?” Curt whispered. His hands remained on Owen’s skin, brushed lightly through his hair. Owen’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the feeling so foreign to him that his body did not know what to do.

He nodded silently. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Curt’s fingers brushed the shell of his ear as they retreated and Owen nearly shivered, the remnants of his nightmare cutting in sharp contrast with Curt’s gentle invasion. It was all almost too much.

Curt laid on his side, still watching over Owen hesitantly. His hand lingered on his arm as if he had forgotten it was there. 

“You want to talk about it?”

Owen closed his eyes for a moment. He anchored himself on Curt’s hand. He wasn’t there anymore. He was here, with Curt. Still, Konstantin was out there, somewhere. Curt hadn’t killed him. There was still a chance he could hurt him. Owen wondered how hard it would be to find him again. When he was healed...

Curt’s thumb smoothed across his skin, almost as if he were trying to coax an answer out of Owen. It worked. 

“They didn’t let me sleep,” Owen said at last. “If I fell asleep they would… they would hit me or something.” Curt’s fingers squeezed his arm reassuringly. “I guess my body hasn’t really caught up yet.” 

Curt finally seemed to realize where his hands were. He retracted them quickly, folding his arms into his chest. Owen’s arm felt cold where his fingers had been. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Curt asked. 

Owen shook his head even as his skin tingled at the loss of contact. “I’ll get better eventually.” He pulled up the duvet to cover his arms. The warmth was not the same as Curt’s fingers. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” Curt said quickly. Owen could barely see his eyes as they traveled over his face. “You want to go back to sleep?”

Owen nodded. He would get better eventually. 

“Alright,” said Curt. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Owen smiled appreciatively. He wondered if Curt could see it in the dark. He closed his eyes again and tried to relax. 

++++++++++++

When Owen woke again the sun was shining through the window. He tensed reflexively but the weight on his arm made him relax. Curt was asleep beside him, his hair mussed from his pillow. 

Owen looked down. Curt’s hand was draped over his wrist, holding him like an anchor. It was heavy and warm. He wondered how he hadn’t woken up. He was a fairly light sleeper, but then again, he wasn’t normally on painkillers. 

_ Speaking of which… _

Owen stretched his leg and stifled a groan. It was certainly stiff but it already felt better now that it had the chance to heal properly. He’d ice his side today and shave if he could. He would be back to his old self in no time.

Curt stirred next to him, his fingers twitching along his wrist. He opened his eyes groggily, squinting against the light from the window. And brought his hands to his eyes. Owen only felt a twinge of disappointment at the loss of contact. Curt stretched his entire body like a cat and groaned loudly. If Owen hadn’t already been awake he surely would have then. 

Curt blinked and turned his head, his eyes finally focusing on Owen enough for recognition to stain his irises. He smiled. 

“Hello.”

“Morning,” Owen replied. 

“Did you sleep well?” Curt asked. It was an innocent enough question. Owen appreciated the discretion. It wasn’t a point of pride for him to be plagued by nightmares like a child. 

“Yes, thank you.”

Curt smiled again. “Good.”

Owen lifted his wrist to check the time but forgot that his watch was no longer there. He hated not knowing things. He sighed irritably and let his arm flop back down onto the duvet. 

“Have you got the time?”

Curt seemed to put two and two together as he raised his own watch. “Should be 11:20 here.” Owen’s stomach growled. Curt grinned. “I’ll get you some breakfast. You stay in bed as long as you need.”

He rose from the bed and pulled on his trousers and his shirt over his underclothes. He checked his reflection in the small mirror by the door. Owen almost chuckled as he made a face and attempted to smooth down his bedhead. He thought Curt looked fine. 

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes tops. Please rest,” he implored. Owen waved him off. Curt left the room, only glancing back at Owen once. 

Everything seemed much quieter when Curt wasn’t there. Even the morning din from outside seemed muted. He sat up stiffly and lifted the hem of his shirt to examine his side. It was still purple and red. His fingers tentatively prodded his ribs, testing how much pressure he could take before it became unbearable. 

Owen liked to know his limits. 

He stood, the floor like ice on his bare feet, and limped to the bathroom for an attempt at a morning routine. 

He faced the mirror as he brushed the night from his teeth, his eyes traveling over the new colors around his eye and sighed. He would not be returning to his normal appearance anytime soon. Still, there were some small improvements he could control. He rummaged around the cabinets until he found a bar of shaving soap and nearly sighed in relief.

Owen didn’t think himself to be entirely concerned about his looks but there was a part of him that understood their importance. As a spy, one had to make judgments, fast and potent, about situations, decisions, and especially people. The way one looked could convince or deceive, persuade or deter. Owen needed to look the part or he couldn’t do his job. 

He knew all his facial expressions, what every muscle in his face did. He knew what degree of a smile made him look sincere, he knew which made him look like a hapless idiot. He knew how to keep his face completely still while processing information, how to focus his eyes even if he wasn’t paying attention. In many ways, Owen was just a very skilled actor, conveying just the right emotion to play a part. 

He drew the razor over the skin of his jaw. 

It was important to him that people could see what he wanted them to see.

Once he was done he washed his face and pulled the water into his hair, running his fingers through it to smooth any tangles or knots. It was getting a little long. He tucked a strand behind his ear, the gesture reminding him of the events that had happened overnight. He shivered inadvertently. 

What had made Curt touch him like that? Why had it worked to soothe him? 

Was he really that lonely, that one soft touch from a friend released a relief so strong within him that it lulled him to sleep? Was it shameful that he wanted Curt to touch him again?

Owen gazed at himself in the mirror, searching his eyes as if he could find answers there. 

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. Of course, he and Curt were friends but how much could Owen abuse that before Curt got uncomfortable? He couldn’t risk their partnership just because he was a little touch-starved.

He reached a decision. If Curt did it again he would not object but he would not seek it out either. He scowled at the very thought humiliating himself with such a request. 

No, this was the best option. The path of least resistance. He would take what he could get. 

+++++++++++

When Curt returned Owen was sitting in the armchair facing the front window, dozing peacefully. He perked up when he saw the bags in Curt’s arms. 

“Hunting has been fruitful,” he said. 

Curt’s teeth flashed in a grin. “I tried to get a variety. But you know I’m not the best cook.”

Owen rose to his feet with only a minimal grimace. “Let me help you with those.”

Curt brushed him off and shuffled into the kitchen, depositing the bags onto the table. “How do eggs sound for your midday breakfast?”

“I’d take anything at this point,” said Owen. “I’ll probably be hungry till next year.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He set about getting out the ingredients for their meal. Owen attempted to help him but Curt shewed him away again. “Go sit at the table. You shouldn’t even be on that leg. At least two more days and then you can help cook if you’re so desperate to tear your stitches.”

Owen threw his hands up in surrender, allowing his partner to steer him by the shoulders to the kitchen table. He pretended not to notice how the contact made his chest feel warm. He sat and watched Curt patter about the kitchen, throwing egg whites over the side of the pan and almost burning the toast. It was a miracle the man didn’t get himself killed on missions. He supposed cooking was a skill Curt had not had much practice in. Still, when it was finished, it looked mostly edible and Owen’s stomach was not in the position to refuse food. 

Three fried eggs and two slices of toast later, Owen was beginning to feel tired again. His eye twitched irritably. Recovery always took longer than he wanted it to. He yawned despite himself. 

Curt wiped his mouth with a napkin as he finished his plate. “Tired?”

“Yes, can you believe it?” Owen said incredulously. Curt grinned. “I sleep all morning and then not even a few hours later-” Owen lifted his wrist to check the time. “Dammit,” he growled. His watch was still destroyed back in that place. He grimaced at the thought of filling out all that paperwork for a replacement. 

“That reminds me,” Curt said, rummaging in his jacket pocket and pulling out a small black box. He slid it across the table to Owen, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks. “I saw that when I was out and I figured you’d want a replacement.”

Owen looked curiously between the box and Curt, reaching out slowly to open it. Inside was a shiny new silver wristwatch, simple, but made with care. It was exactly the type of style Owen would have chosen if he were to get one himself. He looked back at the blushing spy. 

“Curt, I can’t possibly accept this.”

“Sure you can,” Curt said. Owen looked at it again. The clock face gleamed. He could see his discolored reflection in the glass.

“It’s lovely,” he murmured. 

Curt smiled. “Go on, put it on.”

Owen hesitated before he took it out and draped it over his left wrist. He tried to catch the latch but the bandages on his fingers slipped off the metal.

“Here.” Curt took Owen’s wrist in his hands, his calloused fingers curling around his hand. The pressure was soft and delicate over his pulse point, like he was holding something breakable. Owen heard the clasp close with a small click. Curt’s fingers lingered a second after, settling the watch on Owen’s arm, righting it to sit perfectly straight.

Slowly, his hands retreated, a light blush still staining his cheeks.

Owen suddenly felt a weight on his chest as if he were being comfortably crushed, like a warm blanket of cement was being lowered over him. He couldn’t quite make sense of the feeling, just as he couldn’t quite understand Curt’s actions the last few days. All that he’d done for him: rescuing him, patching him up, now this? It was the most anyone had ever done for him. 

_ Why? _

“I don’t deserve you,” Owen said softly, gazing at the watch on his wrist. He had tried for a joking tone but it came out more sincere than he had intended. He felt Curt’s eyes on him. He raised his own to meet them. “Thank you.”

Curt smiled shyly, his eyes wavering, but always returning to Owen’s. 

“Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uh... think I might be writing more for Owen. I apologise for the unevenness but he entertains me more I think. 
> 
> Anyway. Hope You Enjoyed!


	11. He can't know you love him

Curt may have overdone it on the watch. 

He took a sip of whiskey as he remembered the look in Owen’s eyes as he put the watch on him. If he had to use a word it would be ‘unsure.’ He was glad he had picked up the booze on his trip to town. He didn’t know how he would have fared the night without it. 

The watch had been impulsive. He knew it. 

Besides drinks and dinners, they had neither been generous gift-givers. It was definitely a step forward, though which direction, Curt didn’t know. He had taken a risk. A big, stupid, vulnerable risk. 

But Owen hadn’t pulled away had he? He accepted the gift, let him put the watch on him. That had to count for something. 

His partner had been quiet the rest of the day, preferring to sit in the armchair gazing out the window, occasionally stretching his sore muscles while Curt kept busy cleaning up and taking inventory of their assets.

He liked to keep busy. Owen liked to think. It wasn’t new. Unfortunately, Curt could have done with a bit of thinking out loud from his partner. He was dying to know what was going on in the man’s head.

Curt took another sip and sighed into the armchair. Owen had long ago gone to bed but the scent of his cologne still hung around the cushions. Curt had finally forced him to retire after the third time he fell asleep in the chair. He was already recovering from torture, he didn’t need a sore neck on top of it all. He’d allowed him to help him to bed even though he denied his weariness. 

Curt checked the time. It had been an hour since he’d left him. He was probably asleep by now. Curt drained the last of his drink, the harsh sting burning a comforting line down his throat, and stood, swaying slightly. He must have had more than he thought. He staggered down the hallway into the dark bedroom and began getting ready for the night, kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt. He tried to be as quiet as possible. He knew Owen was a light sleeper. 

But he looked as peaceful as ever, all smooth lines and soft features. He so rarely got to see him like that. He felt privileged to know he’d see it again, though perhaps not as much as he would like. 

Curt chewed on his lip as he gazed over the sleeping form of his partner. He was getting too close, and he didn’t just mean emotionally. He couldn’t help touching him. He couldn’t help the way it made him feel. Was it wrong to take advantage of Owen like that? He had a right to know - a right to know that touching him made Curt feel like he was flying, made him feel like a balloon so high in the air that nothing could touch him and yet ready to pop at any moment. How long could he keep that to himself?

Stolen touches and longing looks were no way to do his job. He had to get his head clear if he was going to be a spy. 

Oh god, his job.  _ Owen’s  _ job. He couldn’t risk their livelihoods even if Owen did...

He’d gotten over crushes before. He could do it again.  _ Would _ do it again. It was just their close proximity, Curt told himself. A life-threatening danger had made him overprotective and he was overreacting. Once Owen healed up, they would go back to their respective homes, be apart for a while, and everything would go back to normal. He’d latch on to some attractive guy in accounting and he’d forget he ever felt this way about Owen. 

Curt took a deep breath and Owen stirred in his sleep.  _ Great, now you woke him. _ He tiptoed to the other side of the bed as quietly as he could. 

A short gasp stopped him in his tracks. His eyes traveled over his partner searching for any threat to his comfort. Gone were the smoothed features of peaceful sleep. Instead, a furrowed brow and twitching lips had taken over. His fingers clenched around the blanket in his hand. 

Curt sighed. He could still comfort his friend. He didn’t need to be his lover to pull him out of a nightmare. 

Owen’s head turned hard as if he were trying to fling the nightmare from his head. Curt sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over, his hand connecting with his shoulder. He shook it slightly. 

“Owen… Owen, wake up,” he said softly. 

Another gasp wrenched itself from the man’s lips. Curt’s fingers threaded through Owen’s hair. 

“Owen, come on. You’re alright.”

The spy’s eyes snapped open, turning wildly until they settled on Curt’s. 

“Curt?” Owen whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake-”

“Hey, hey,” Curt cut him off. “You’re fine, you didn’t wake me up. You’re actually a very quiet sleeper. I’ve never even heard you snore.”

Owen almost smiled. Curt felt like his chest was expanding. 

“You okay?” he asked after a moment. Owen nodded. “Good.”

He brushed his fingers through the dark hair near his temple again and Owen’s eyes fell closed. He must be tired. He started to pull away.

“Wait,” Owen said, eyes snapping open, then looking like he immediately wanted to shove a dirty sock in his mouth. Curt froze. 

“You want me to stay?” Hope niggled at the base of his skull. Maybe he wouldn’t have to distance himself too much.

He could almost feel Owen’s tension in the air. Curt tried not to let his pity show on his face. He knew Owen would hate it. In truth, Curt didn’t think any less of his partner for wanting a small reminder of safety. It was the least he could do after he let him get captured. 

“Owen?” 

His partner seemed frozen but for his chest moving up and down with shallow breaths. Finally, he nodded, closing his eyes as if he can’t stand to wait for Curt’s answer.

He shouldn’t do this. His fingers itched to brush through his hair once more, hold him against his chest like he wanted to, but Owen wouldn’t know why. 

_ Does he have to know? _

He should. Was Curt ever going to be brave enough to tell him?

This was ridiculous. His friend needed him. It didn’t matter if his feelings leaned toward the romantic side at the moment. Curt would be there for him regardless. 

“Okay,” he said. He settled back into the mattress, letting his hand travel down Owen’s arm to curl around his bicep. He traced his thumb back and forth over the skin, hoping that that would be enough for him. 

It seemed to be fine. Owen closed his eyes again and turned his head away from him. Curt stared at his exposed neck, watched his pulse quiet to a steady rhythm. He wanted to kiss him there. 

Curt forced his eyes shut and tried to go to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. Next one is longer. Thank you to everyone who is still reading!


	12. Don't leave me now

Owen looked up from his cards. “Go fish.”

Curt narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not supposed to lie in Go FIsh. It’s not a bluffing game.”

“Who says?”

“I says,” Curt leaned back in his chair indignantly. Owen gave him an innocent smile. He liked rilling him up. It was getting easier and easier now that they’d spent a good three weeks alone together. It was a miracle they hadn’t tried to kill each other.

Come to think of it, this was probably the longest time they’d ever spent with one another. Certainly the longest time they’d been together outside of work. And yet, Owen could safely say that he hadn’t wanted to leave at all the entire time he was here. 

Work was a distant memory, one that he had purposefully set aside in favor of simple things like cards, and cooking, and football games on the radio. 

It wouldn’t last forever though. He could tell Curt was getting restless. He was doing his best to suppress it, treading carefully around the subject whenever they veered too close, but it was always on his mind, behind searching eyes, in twitching fingers as they redressed Owen’s wounds. 

Curt finally relented and drew another card from the pool. “You feeling better today?”

Owen cocked his head to the side and considered his response. This conversation could go a few ways. 

“I’m fine, love.”

“The leg feels okay?” Curt pressed. He’d taken the stitches out two days ago. It had healed fairly well considering the circumstances. 

“Everything feels fine,” Owen assured. The burns on his torso would be scarred for years but his ribs were only slightly bruised. His fingernails weren’t fully grown back, but his face had healed and he could walk without any assistance. 

Curt nodded, silent for a moment. 

“Got any nines?” asked Owen, attempting to change the subject. 

Curt tossed two cards onto the table, clearly working up the courage to say something. Owen waited. 

“I’m going to go back to work tomorrow.”

Owen pretended to study the cards in his hand. 

“Now that you’re better,” Curt rushed on. “I think I better get back. A.S.S. has been calling me nonstop. Cynthia’s probably already had three strokes while I’ve been away. You know how her temper gets and well, you know how this job is. The work’s never really done is it.” 

Owen placed his cards face-up on the table. Their game was over. 

“Thank you for letting me know.”

Curt flushed. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Your whole cynical-and-scornful routine.”

Owen narrowed his eyes curiously.

“Just tell me if you’re upset,” Curt said. 

Owen said nothing. He wasn’t upset. Not really. He’d been expecting this for a while. In fact, he was shocked it hadn’t happened sooner. Curt was an addict, and not just of drink. He needed work and all the things that came with it: the puzzles, the danger, the admiration. He could only stay away for so long. 

Owen wasn’t upset. He was… resigned. He didn’t have the same passion Curt had for the job, nor the sense of duty. He’d fallen into this profession out of necessity. It wasn’t as if he’d had much of a choice at 18 when MI6 came knocking on the door of his regiment commander and demanded to see the best of the group. It had been better pay, a cleaner uniform, and no latrine duty guaranteed. What was he supposed to have done? 

He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if he’d never signed those papers. If he’d shaken his head at those recruiters and walked back to his bunk to get ready for his assigned patrol. Would he have been happier doing menial tasks for basic pay? Would he still be lonely, or would he go out to pubs with his bunkmates on the weekends, would he have met a girl one night and fallen in love? Would he have been shipped out and shot at the age of 21 because he hadn’t been paying attention at his post? 

There was no way to know what would have happened. 

But he knew that he never would have met Curt, the best friend he ever had, the only person in the world that he trusted completely. The person who was going to leave him tomorrow. 

He gazed dolorously at a point just below Curt’s eyes. His partner was waiting for him to speak. 

“I’m not upset,” he began. Curt raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “I just don’t know if I want to go back myself.”

Concern forced Curt to sit forward in his chair and his brow to crease. “Not go back? Owen, you have to.”

“I certainly do not.”

“Yes, you do! You're the best spy MI6 has! You can’t just-”

“MI6 has plenty of spies. They don’t need me.”

“Of course, they do.” Curt stood. “Think of all the missions you’ve been on. You think someone else could have accomplished all that?”

“Now is not the time for flattery, love.”

“And now isn’t the time to retire,” Curt retorted. He rounded the coffee table between them to get closer to Owen. He looked down at him imploringly. “It’s our job to save the world.”

Owen raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think it’s time the world learned to fend for itself?”

Curt scowled, an intensity to his gaze that Owen rarely saw. Perhaps he’d finally crossed a line. 

“So you’d just give up on them?” Curt’s voice was soft. 

Owen sighed. “You and I aren’t always going to be there to get the job done.”

“But we are here now.” He crouched in front of Owen’s chair to be at eye level. He reached out and clasped his hand over his knee. Owen's skin tried to absorb its warmth. “Come on, you and me, saving the world… you’re telling me you don’t want that anymore? That - what? The world isn’t worth it?”

Curt was trying his best to hide his anxiousness but Owen could hear it in his voice. He hadn’t wanted to upset him this much. He shouldn’t have said anything. Next time, he would keep his misgivings to himself. He needed to course correct, quickly. He bowed his head to look up at Curt through innocent eyes. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, love,” he said, placation coating his tongue. “I’m just not sure if I’m fighting fit at the moment.” 

Curt bit his lip and studied him. Owen held his gaze. He’d duped Curt before, he could do it again. 

“But you  _ will  _ come back. Eventually.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but the uncertainty in his voice overrode the demand. 

Owen swallowed and broke his gaze. “Yes,” he muttered. “Of course, I will. What else do I have?” He turned his eyes back to Curt’s. There was a pity within them that made him squirm. 

“You know you’ve got me, old boy,” Curt almost whispered, a hopefulness to his tone that Owen didn’t quite understand. If he was trying to inspire him, it would take more than wide eyes and soft voices. Still, Owen felt a now-familiar weight on his chest, the same weight that had consistently presented itself over the last few weeks, getting heavier, stronger, crushing him entirely. It weighed down his trepidation for a moment. 

“Yes,” he said at last. 

Curt, seemingly satisfied, rose to his feet, his hand leaving Owen’s knee. The spy watched him head to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. 

He didn’t want him to leave tomorrow. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When Owen awoke the next morning, he felt tired, as if he was already suffering the jetlag he was going to experience later in the day. 

Curt’s hand was warm where it was wrapped around his forearm. The calluses on his palm were rough and solid, a heat shared only for him between their skin. There was something so permanently warm about the man lying next to him that Owen would not ever cease to be amazed by. He was going to miss it when they were apart. 

He sighed, remembering what the day held for the pair of them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Curt’s departure was a quiet affair. They had a small breakfast and a solid handshake and then he was gone, as if he’d never been there at all. If it weren’t for the bandages over the burns on his torso, Owen could have believed it was all part of his imagination. It already felt like a distant memory

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Agent Carvour.”

Owen looked up. His boss hung halfway out the doorway to his office, raising his eyebrows impatiently. Owen rose from his seat and followed him inside, smiling politely at his secretary as he passed even as he knew he’d have nothing to smile about for a while. 

Harris took his seat behind his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket. Owen waited to be told he could take his. The man in front of him shuffled some papers on his desk, seemingly entirely engrossed, as if he hadn’t just called Owen into his office. The spy took the time to study him and his surroundings. He took in the man’s sharply parted blonde hair, his coffee-stained teeth, the new crayon drawing from his daughter stuffed unceremoniously under a three-day-old mug of tea. 

“Sit,” he said finally. 

Owen kept his face blank as he sat in the purposefully uncomfortable chair opposite him. 

Harris selected a piece of paper from a file and scanned it quickly. His eyes rose slightly to appraise his spy. 

“You were in the custody of the hostiles for approximately 68 hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were detained and unable to escape.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris flattened the paper onto his desk. “You were subjected to several methods of torture during those 68 hours.”

Owen swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“At any point during those 68 hours did you divulge any information regarding your true identity or your mission with our organization?”

“Sir, as stated in my report -”

“I know what it says in your report, son,” Harris said, his voice soft with artificial sincerity, the endearment tacked on to the end mimicking an idle insult. 

“They learned my name from an outside source, sir.”

Harris sighed and leaned back into his chair, his dark blue tie falling a little to the left. 

“Agent Carvour, may I remind you that we have certain protocols when it comes to-”

“You can’t possibly blame that on me,” Owen interrupted, his frustration getting the better of him. 

A dangerous light entered Harris’ eyes. “You were the one that got captured in the first place, son.”

Owen bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from speaking. 

“We never received a distress call.”

“I never got the chance!” Owen retorted. Harris narrowed his eyes. “Sir,” Owen added belatedly. 

Harris drummed his fingers along the edge of his desk, debating something in his head. “Carvour, I’ll come right out and say it. There have been some doubts expressed among my advisors that you may have divulged more information than just your name during your interrogation.”

“What?”

“How was it that you allowed yourself to be captured?”

Owen’s mind raced. They thought he was a traitor. “I’d been shot, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“A spy of your talent just stopped being aware of their surroundings?”

Owen tried to keep his voice level. “Sir, I made a mistake. I never intended-”

“You can understand how this looks, Agent Carvour.” Harris leaned forward in his chair, looking ready to pounce. 

Owen started to sweat. “Sir, I don’t have a clue what you mean. I swear this won’t happen again, I just -”

“Your report said they were Russian, correct?”

“Yes, but-”

“But you only ever saw two of them?”

“Sir, if you’ll just -”

“And then the  _ American  _ rescued you,” Harris said, searching his face for hidden truths. “Just out of the blue.”

At the mention of his partner, Owen suddenly felt cold. He longed to be back in the bed they shared, warm, quiet, Curt’s hand on his arm. 

“Yes, he did.”

“You were AWOL for three weeks.”

Owen looked down, though he wasn’t sure if his shame was genuine or put on for the sake of his superior. “Yes.”

Harris slammed his hand onto his desk. Owen flinched. He felt frozen, a chill entering his bones and stiffening his muscles. Harris tapped his papers absently, lost in thought. 

“You’ll be under suspension for a week,” Harris said. Owen’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “We need to conduct a more thorough investigation.” Owen remained silent. “Nancy will arrange your suspension paperwork. I expect you here at 0800 tomorrow to begin your questioning. Is that understood?”

Owen straightened his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Owen tossed his keys onto his coffee table and shuffled to his bedroom. It had been a very long day and he didn’t even think he could muster the energy to make himself a cup of tea. He kicked his shoes off as he entered the doorway, barely shedding his coat before collapsing onto his mattress. 

He sighed against the familiar linen, finally allowed to relax. 

An annoying itch of anger interrupted his relaxation. It scratched and clawed behind his eyes and seemed to build within his sinuses and he didn’t know if it was directed at himself or the organization that employed him. 

He should just quit. 

MI6 clearly didn’t trust him and he never got as much out of a mission as he wanted. He’d long passed the feeling of patriotism that many of his coworkers possessed. No one in their right minds would like this job with its shitty hours, mediocre pay, and oh yes, the potential  _ torture _ every other week. 

He should just quit. He’d be happier, safer. 

_ You’d never see Curt again, _ a small voice whispered in his head.  _ You don’t know that. We could still visit each other. _

But would he still want to? If Owen wasn’t a spy anymore, if he was just a normal citizen with a boring job and a boring life would Curt still find him interesting? 

This was ridiculous. Curt and Owen were friends for a reason. A job wasn’t going to change their affection for one another…

Right?

Owen groaned into his pillow and let his eyes drift closed. He pushed away the muddled thoughts of his suspension and his best friend. He would have plenty of time to overthink it in the coming week when he was being relentlessly questioned by the people who were supposed to look after him. Instead, he thought he’d better get on with sleeping, even though he dreaded the nightmares that were to come. 

For the second time that day, he wished that Curt were there with him, by his side, ready to lend a hand in comfort. 

His mind conjured the image of his partner behind his closed eyelids. He felt his fingers at his temple, threading through his hair. Owen sighed again. 

What if he were here now? What would Owen say?

_ Please just hold me. _

Owen’s eyes snapped open. God, he was pathetic. And quite possibly gay. Owen scoffed. What heterosexual male wanted another man to touch him this badly? 

Owen rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling and tried to think. 

He liked women. He really liked women. He’d been with enough to know - long, gorgeous hair, painted lips, full curves, and delicate skin he could kiss until they called out his name. 

He’d never thought about men that way. Sure he appreciated a nice jawline and a good haircut…and a nice set of shoulders… and maybe his eyes sometimes traveled when a pair of tight-fitting trousers passed his way but- but he’d always attributed it to envy, not _ attraction _ . 

He’d certainly never thought about kissing them before except for mild curiosity. Who hadn’t thought about it once? He closed his eyes again and tried to think rationally. 

Curt was his best friend. His partner. 

His partner who held his arm while he slept, who brushed his fingers along the sensitive skin on his wrist while he was fixing his watch.

A vivid vision overtook him: Curt taking his hand in his own, lifting it up, turning it slowly so the palm faced up, bringing it closer and closer to his face until at last his lips hovered over the pulse on his wrist. He imagined his lips were warm. 

Owen opened his eyes slowly, hanging on to the edges of his daydream even as it dissipated into thin air. He shivered slightly. Owen curled in on himself, pressing his knees into his chest and holding his arms close as the realization hit him.

He wanted Curt to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with Owen's backstory. Let me know what you thought!


	13. Another shot?

“Were you out of your fucking mind?”

Curt leaned back in his chair, keeping Cynthia’s erratic pacing in his peripheral vision. 

“I made a call in the moment.”

“You made a  _ fucking mistake.”  _ She paused, closing her eyes for a moment to try and collect herself. 

Curt kept very still as if the slightest movement could set her off again. He’d already sat through ten minutes of vulgar nonsense from his boss and she was finally getting to the point of their meeting: his three weeks of absence. 

“He needed to recover.”

“Then bring him to one of our facilities!” Cynthia shouted. “You had no authority to take him into your care no matter how much you want to suck his dick.”

Curt forced himself not to react. There was no way she knew anything. 

“I should fire you right now.” Cynthia slumped into her desk chair in defeat. Curt opened his mouth. “And I still might if you make any more smartass comments so don’t even think about it.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of pills, shaking three into her palm before popping them all into her mouth and throwing her head back to swallow them. She sighed and closed her eyes. “As it so happens, we were able to get enough intel from your  _ original _ mission to subvert the plot in Turkey but we still lost one of the foreign secretary’s personal aides. No thanks to your report writing.”

A whisper of guilt threaded into Curt’s skull at the admission but he brushed it aside. They had managed the mission adequately without him, though he wondered what might have happened if he’d been there. 

“I am sorry I wasn’t there,” Curt began, testing carefully to see if it was safe to speak yet. “But I felt there was a higher priority of saving an agent that has given our organization enough service over the years to warrant a rescue.”

Cynthia glared at him from beneath her bangs. 

“I can see that for once you seem to have grown some balls along with a spine. Hmmph. And though I find it completely fucking inconvenient right now it’s clear that you’re going to stick to your guns on this one.”

Curt tried not to preen. That was high praise from Cynthia even if it sounded like a death threat coming from her. 

“As punishment for defying me, however, I’m assigning you a deep-cover mission in Cuba.”

A delight Curt couldn’t control bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“And this  _ is _ a punishment, Mega, so you can wipe that giddy-ass grin off your stupid face. This is not going to be some beach vacation and you’ll be  _ checking in regularly _ or I will personally fly your poor mother down there and cut your balls off in front of her, is that understood?”

Curt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cynthia nodded slightly. It was the closest approximation to cession that he was going to get. 

“Norman will brief you in the conference room. You’re dismissed.”

Curt rose from his chair feeling almost dizzy with relief. He still had his job. He had an assignment. Cynthia hadn’t even tried to shoot him. Perhaps he could even find enough distractions to stop thinking about Owen for a while. 

He headed toward the office door, the slightest of smiles on his face. 

“Oh and, Mega…”

Curt turned back to his boss. 

“Don’t take any more breaks. Or I will fire you.”

He sighed softly, lowering his eyes before meeting hers again. “Understood.”

\-----------------------------------------------

Curt had already sweated through three of his shirts and he was not looking forward to ruining a fourth. The hot Cuban sun beat down on him relentlessly as he sat on the corner café, keeping an eye on his target sitting three tables down to his right. 

He was starting to get bored. Curt sighed and pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. Who was he kidding… he was bored two weeks ago. Today marked the fifth consecutive week of following this random nuclear physicist around the town while fuck all happened. 

Cynthia had told him to check in regularly but there had been literally nothing to report. The man - Patrick Easton was the name in the file - stayed in his motel room mostly, only coming out for small walks around the block, a few meals here and there, and three excursions to the bar down the street. The most exciting thing that had happened was when a slightly tipsy woman had tried talking up the poor man and he had politely turned her down. Apparently, she’d liked the nerdy aesthetic. 

Curt glanced at his target again before wiping the sweat from his forehead. 

He reminded Curt a little of Barb, cute in a bookish way, with the glasses and the notebook he took everywhere. He probably had some good intel in that notebook, secrets that might be helpful, codes that could unlock a new design for a weapon of mass destruction, or a cipher with information on some hidden enemy. His mind raced with scenarios of theft. He could try for misdirection, he’d never been a bad pickpocket, but he’d surely figure that it was gone as soon as Curt got a hold of it. He still had the camera in his pen. If he could -

_ Focus on the mission, love,  _ Owen’s voice crowded into his mind. He pushed it away. He’d been doing that a lot lately, repressing, but the alternative seemed like a worse option. Owen could not be his conscience. It wasn’t healthy to hear his voice inside his head. It certainly wasn’t right to obsess over his best friend like this. 

But he missed him. 

Curt had only left five weeks ago and yet he missed his friend as if it had been a decade. His thoughts always drifted back to him. He wondered what he was doing, what he was feeling, if he missed Curt just as much as Curt missed him. Curt could not make sense of it. They’d been apart for much longer periods than this. At their longest point, it had taken nine months for them to see each other between missions. Why was this time any different? 

_ Just focus on the mission. You can sort this out later. _

Curt looked up again to check on his target, but he was not at his table. Concern trickled through his consciousness before he located him again. The man was headed straight toward him. Curt’s concern morphed into a mild panic as he watched him approach. 

_ Dammit.  _ Something must have given him away. He schooled his features into those of nonchalance and pretended to be engrossed in the newspaper under his plate. When the physicist finally came to a stop a few feet from Curt’s table, the spy finally looked up. He was shorter than Curt and he looked as if a strong wind could blow him over. Blonde hair grown too long flopped over onto the rims of his glasses and the first three buttons of his blue and white striped shirt hung open in the heat. He was actually pretty cute up close like this. 

“Buenos dias,” Curt said warily, trying to act as if he were just a normal patron whose early lunch was being disrupted by some random stranger and not a victim of his surveillance. 

Patrick cocked his head to the side, his glasses flashing. He felt himself being studied. “Morning,” he said. “Sure is hot today.”

He had a southern accent. It hadn’t mentioned where he was from in the file but Curt decided he could ask now. 

“You’re not from around here,” Curt ventured, leaning back in his chair. 

“Neither are you,” Patrick grinned. He shifted his weight onto one foot, his hip jutting out towards the street. “Vacation?”

“You could say that. I was on a business trip but I found I quite like the local amenities.” Curt quickly spun a lie. “I’ll probably go back to the states eventually but for now,” he gestured vaguely to the colorful corner, “I’m enjoying myself.”

“I’m sure your wife’ll be wantin’ you back soon.”

Curt giggled inwardly just like all the other times someone assumed he had a wife. He raised his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “No wife for me, I’m afraid.”

Patrick smoothed his hand into his pocket slowly, the other clutching his notebook. “That’s a shame... handsome man like you without a ring.”

Hmm. Perhaps he hadn’t assumed. He took off his sunglasses as squinted up at the man. He was chewing delicately at the inside of his lip. 

“I’m Patrick by the way,” he offered as an afterthought.

Curt found himself smiling. “Curt.” Aliases be damned. He didn’t foresee this conversation following a path anywhere near his actual mission here.

“I’ve seen you around,” Patrick said, then adding playfully, “You’re not following me are you?”

Curt grinned and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve actually been hired to spy on you.”

Patrick laughed. It ended with an awkward snort. Oh, he was cute, wasn’t he? 

“Listen, if you want to get out of this heat, I’ve got an icebox full of drinks and a functioning fan at my hotel room,” Patrick said, a bit of shyness finally seeping into his voice. “I’m on my way there now.”

Curt thought of Owen for only a second before he brushed the silly thought away. This wouldn’t hurt him. They weren’t a couple. They never were. Never would be. By all accounts, Owen had no right to show up in his mind's eye at the moment. 

Curt grinned. “Lead on.”

\------------------------------------

Curt squinted at the whiskey bottle in front of him, trying to focus on it enough for two images to become one. It didn’t really work but he managed to grab the neck and pour some of it into a shot glass.

He was well and truly drunk now. Alone in his hotel room. 

He was always drunk. Why was he drunk?

Curt struggled to bring together any memories of the day that had occurred. He’d followed Patrick… Oh, God. He could only imagine what Cynthia would say if he knew he had compromised the mission by initiating contact with his mark. But she’d never know. She couldn’t know. 

Patrick had been good. Really good. Surprisingly good. He’d been a distraction, a glorious diversion, a hollow rollick that left a sliver of emptiness in his chest that Curt could not shake. 

The shot glass swam in front of him. 

Curt should have known better than to try and fill that emptiness with drink. It had never worked before. 

But maybe he thought he might forget Owen, forget that he wanted him, forget that he could not have him. Curt muttered something incomprehensible and sloshed more alcohol into the tiny glass. Irritation prickled under his skin. Who said he couldn’t have Owen anyway? He hiccuped and swallowed the vomit that bubbled up his throat. What was stopping Curt? Fear of rejection? That Owen would look at him with disgust in his eyes and push him away? That he’d turn him in and never want to see him again? 

Curt’s lip trembled at the thought. 

But at least he would know. Then, at least, Curt wouldn’t have to lie to him anymore.

_ Fear. What a stupid emotion.  _ When had Curt ever been a coward? Curt was brave...strong. Especially with the help of a little liquid courage. He shouldn’t have to bow to this feeling. 

“Sh’ tell ‘em,” Curt slurred to no one in particular. He looked around the empty hotel room but there was no one there to object. “Yeah.” He should tell him. He pulled himself into a standing position, walls spinning, and staggered to the phone on the wall by the door. God, he could barely see. 

Curt slumped into the wall, his face inches from the rotary. 

_ I’m gonna tell him. _

He picked up the receiver and poked at the numbers. He watched them spin back into place. A dizzying circle of numbers danced across his vision. He needed to hurry up. He was very close to blacking out. There was a dial tone and then he heard the line pick up.

“What in God’s name do ye want at five o’clock in the mornin’?” A shrill voice answered. A woman’s voice. Curt scowled. That wasn’t right.

“S’Mr. Carvour there?” Curt hiccuped. 

“I don’t know any Carvour,” the woman snapped. 

“Oh.” Curt slid down the wall. “Sorry. Wrong num-” The woman hung up on him before he could finish. 

Curt stared at the receiver in his hand. He let it fall from his fingers and watched it swing on its cord as it collided with the wall. He tried to ignore the feeling of relief filling his lungs as he realized he was too drunk to even dial the right number. His gaze was drawn instead to the bottle of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t even remember taking it with him. 

Curt shrugged. He never did remember. 

He brought the bottle to his lips and did not remember anything after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I'm running out of slow-burn y'all. How about just straight-up pining instead?


End file.
